


the arduous motions of grace

by ridiculousinconvenientlove (HipsterGavroche)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Ballet AU, Dancer Grantaire, Depression, M/M, Modern AU, Multi, Other, Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slow Burn, past heavy drug use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-11-01
Packaged: 2018-04-11 09:49:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4430651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HipsterGavroche/pseuds/ridiculousinconvenientlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t like he was <em>trying</em> to keep it from them, but after he quit the Royal Ballet it was just so much easier to start over with a group of college students who were far too busy trying to save the world to care about something like classical dance. Grantaire guesses he should have known that eventually this life he’s built up around himself would unravel, but it’d been 3 years and so far no one had questioned him. But now they know everything he didn’t want them to know. Enjolras knows everything. </p><p>aka the ballet au written by someone who did ballet for one year when she was 6</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a perfect return

**Author's Note:**

> Finally getting around to editing and posting this! It's been in work in various stages for over 6 months now. The idea is loosely based on Sergei Polunin, who really did walk away from the Royal Ballet, and who you might recognize from [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=c-tW0CkvdDI) of him dancing to Take Me to Church (if you haven't seen it, please watch it! It could give anyone an appreciation for dance). Because of my obsession with him some of Grantaire's character is based on true facts about him but it's obviously not a complete reflection, and there are many differences. 
> 
> Chapter title is from All is Truth by Walt Whitman, work title is from Corps de Ballet by W.S. Merwin.

“We have a Wikipedia page!” Courfeyrac crows as he flies through the door, iPad in hand. Grantaire watches as the more involved members of ABC crowd around it, Combeferre peering down over his glasses as Enjolras studies the page with intensity.

“’Les amis de l’ABC are a student activist group at Aix-Marseilles University,’” Bossuet reads to the room loudly. “This is fantastic, they’ve got stuff about the latest protest-“

“That’s why it was made,” Courfeyrac announces proudly. “I told you all press is good press!”

“If you want people to know you as the student group that doesn’t know how to plan a protest,” Grantaire tells him from where he’s sitting, bottle cradled in hand, but there’s no bite to his words. He’s saving that for Enjolras.

Who, as Grantaire predicted, takes the bait. “It’s inevitable with a protest of this size that police will get involved, and undoubtedly not everyone was there to support the cause,” Enjolras says bitterly. “But most of this is good information- they’re talking about the recurring fees and why they’re so limiting to lower-income students-“ he says, already half on his way to a fury-fueled rant.

“There’s a picture of you,” Combeferre says, pointing at the page, and Jesus fuck Grantaire will have to look at this later.

“Someone’s really put a lot of work into this,” Bossuet says.

“This will definitely give us a boost in our work to be recognized as legitimate,” Enjolras says, argument apparently forgotten, but the comment is aimed at Grantaire.

“Legitimate as the Roman empire, my friend, though your Wikipedia page is much shorter.”

“We don’t need length to make a difference, although I’m sure the page will continue to be updated- we’ll certainly reach more people that way-“

“Hopefully you won’t end the same way as our poor Roman counterparts. Your rise and your fall, who cares about what’s in the middle.”

Enjolras, looking frustrated as ever, is still formulating his response when Joly cries out, “They’ve got a list of all the regular members!”

“How’d they even know our first names?” Bahorel asks, probably because he doesn’t remember even his own.

“Grantaire, you have a Wikipedia page? There’s a link to it,” Jehan says.

Grantaire looks up at _that_ , and meets the eyes of ABC, all trained on him. “Probably a misdirect to someone far more talented than I,” he says, raising his glass towards the group.

“Click on it! Click on it!” Courfeyrac cheers, and Grantaire didn’t even know it was possible to hate that ray of sunshine, but suddenly he does.

He sees Enjolras’s hand move towards the screen, swears to God he can fucking _hear_ the tap of his finger against the link, and curses everything. They’re all silent for a long moment, looking up at him and back at the page, and there’s some jostling so everyone can see it, and Grantaire is feeling like a deer about to startle away from the oncoming semi.

“That’s definitely you,” says Jehan weakly, and all Grantaire can do is nod.

It wasn’t like he was _trying_ to keep it from them, but after he quit the Royal Ballet it was just so much easier to start over with a group of college students who were far too busy trying to save the world to care about something like classical dance.

“You’re a dancer?” Bahorel asks, finally catching a glance of the screen and the picture at the top that’s almost inevitably of Grantaire in some mortifying dance costume.

“Used to be,” Grantaire says, wondering how the fuck he can get out of here without anyone trying to follow him.

“Why have you never _told_ us?” Courfeyrac says, moving away from the iPad towards Grantaire. He keeps his eyes on Enjolras, who is intently reading whatever is on that page. Probably more than Grantaire knows about his life, and definitely more than he wants Enjolras to know.

"You never asked, did you?” Grantaire says with a wink, because it’s easier to pretend that things are okay when Courfeyrac slides down across from him and he can pretend that only one of them knows.

“These are things I should _know_ about my dear friends!” Courfeyrac whines, pulling his lips down into a pout. “Think of how many chicks I could get with you as my wingman!”

“Ah, but you don’t need to tell my fascinating backstory to achieve that goal,” he says.

Courfeyrac still looks mildly bewildered, and the rest of them are torn between reading what’s on the iPad and watching him. He’s trying to avoid eye contact, avoid questions, because he didn’t come to the Les Amis meeting in a mental state anywhere near prepared to handle this.

Then Enjolras looks up, and Grantaire’s eyes are locked on his. “You were in the damn _Royal Ballet_ , and then you _walked away_ the morning of a show-“

Combeferre’s hand lands on his shoulder, and then a stern, “Enjolras.”

“No surprise that I’d flake out on my responsibilities though, it’s what I’m best at,” Grantaire says with a twisted grin as he chucks the notebook he’d been idly doodling on in his bag and grabs it. “Speaking of, it’s time for me to go, I think.”

He hears some protests, but the noises around him are starting to muddle together, and he vaguely recognizes Jehan telling them to shut up. He leaves unimpeded and only a short stop at the liquor store is between him and his apartment.

 

 

Once he’s properly drunk he reads the ABC’s Wikipedia page enough times to have it practically committed to memory. The page has the whole fucking history of the group; its first year mostly consisted of the Golden Trio pissing off professors, but the group blossomed its second year. Grantaire had started showing up to meetings sometime around then by the suggestion of Courfeyrac, the talkative munchkin who showed up every day for his shift at the boulangerie to buy himself far too much bread for someone who’s only 5’7”. Grantaire wasn’t the only non-student, but he was definitely the only one who called out Enjolras on his bullshit. But the others let him stick around, presumably for his humor and the quick little doodles he did for them when they asked.

The article mentions none of Grantaire’s distractions, though. In fact, he’s in the list of members, as though he’s one of them. Whoever wrote this page was seriously misinformed, he thinks. And true, his name stands out from the rest- it’s the only one in the underlined blue indicating a hyperlink. He scrolls back up to the section about the protest from last week and pauses at the picture of Enjolras a few moments more. It’s him mid-chant, his mouth open and his face tensed as his hair blossoms around him. Grantaire can practically hear the words come out of his mouth. He hadn’t gone to this protest, not at first. He had work at night, so he had laid on the couch trying to make his hangover go away. At least, until he heard the sounds of glass shattering a few blocks away and people running. He had no way of knowing if they were related to the protest, he supposed, except for the fact that it always was.

Goddamn those people, he thinks now. He gives even less of a fuck about application fees than they do, but that doesn’t mean he goes around throwing bottles at protesters. And now all his friends know probably every detail about his past because some fuckers had to ruin this protest. _See, Enjolras, I do have some good reasons to be a cynic about this shit,_ he thinks.

Once he’s deemed himself well and truly plastered he finally clicks on his link. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen his Wikipedia page- maybe before he quit, but it never had much relevance to him. Now, now things are different. Enjolras knows everything about him that’s on this page, maybe even went home and read it just to see exactly how much Grantaire’s fucked up in his life.

The picture at the top is from before he left. It was taken in the streets of London the day of a performance, by a reporter. His hair was down to his shoulders at the time and he’s not smiling. Grantaire doesn’t remember the picture being taken, but he knows there was something illegal in his system. He scrolls down and starts reading.

 _Mykhaylo Oleksovich Grantaire (born 20 November 1989) is a Ukranian ballet dancer who was formerly a principal dancer with the British Royal Ballet. He abruptly left the Royal Ballet the day of his performance in_ La Bayadere. _He is now in rumored retirement in Marseilles, France._

So it didn’t start as bad as it could have. Grantaire reads about his childhood and the accomplishments that followed. There’s a section on his family, a few sentences about his father’s absence and an overt psychoanalysis of his mother. There’s praise for his dancing and a list of all the awards he received.

And then, there’s the paragraph about his retreat from the dancing world. The story is a lot more complicated than what the page portrays: famed ballet star who’s been dancing since he was 4 is frustrated with his limited lifestyle, feels he is burnt out, gets involved with drinking and drugs, then one day is gone. But he guesses none of it really matters. He never before thought about how the outside world would see his actions, and he never thought a person like Enjolras would read this and make his sole judgement on Grantaire based on a couple dozen words.

So now they know everything he didn’t want them to know, he thinks. Enjolras knows everything. He guesses he should have known that eventually this life he’s built up around himself would unravel, but it’d been 3 years since he got here and so far no one had questioned him. He’s barely had to lie at all. Apparently Les Amis have some unspoken rule against asking people about their past unless they volunteer it, because he’s never been pressed about his life in Ukraine except for the few details he’s volunteered.

Grantaire’s halfway to falling asleep at his laptop from mental exhaustion and drunkenness when his phone begins blaring out, “Dancing queen, young and sweet, only 17-“

“Musichetta,” Grantaire mumbles when he picks up the phone. “I was just about to fall into a very nice coma when you had to go remind me that I am no longer 17.”

“Grantaire!” she practically screeches into the phone, cutting him off and making him hold the phone a few more inches away from his ear. “If I had known you were a dancer, I wouldn’t have had to deal with Bossuet stepping on my toes every Thursday night for swing night at the Corinthe. You’re my partner tonight, be there in ten minutes. You’d better look sharp.” And just as quickly, she hangs up.

Grantaire smiles. There’s a reaction he can’t complain about, he thinks. Of course ballet is a far cry from swing dancing, and the only dancing he’s ever done professionally is ballet. But swing dancing does sound awfully appealing right now, especially if he can manage to get more buzzed from the alcohol than depressed. And Musichetta knows him so well, she probably already has a drink (or several) ordered for him to do just that.

He looks at his clock. Jesus fuck, how is it only 10:30? He peels himself out of his chair and manages to squeeze himself into dark skinny jeans and a grey button-up, adding cologne because damn he does love Musichetta for always knowing how to get him out of his pit of self-loathing.

The Corinthe is one of his favorite places anywhere, really, one of the places that he can always turn to in his moments of need. And once he started dragging Joly and Bossuet (and, by nature, Musichetta as well) here, he knows there’s always a support group there if he needs a distraction. He notices Musichetta within half a second and she’s got him on the dance floor before the next beat of the song.

“Hope you’re not too drunk to move your feet,” she tells him with a grin.

“A few drinks’ve never stopped me before,” he says, slipping a hand around her waist. He knows just enough steps to get by, but he’s grateful for her lead as the song speeds up. She presses her face closer to his to speak to him over the constant noise of the Corinthe.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly.”

“Are you going to mope about it?”

“That’s inevitable.”

“Then we’re going to talk about it. I don’t give a shit about why you chose to quit- Lord knows I quit everything I was good at when I was younger for the most inane reasons- but the part I can’t figure out is why you didn’t want us to know.”

Grantaire tries to focus on not stepping on her feet first before answering. “It was a fresh start and I didn’t want to explain myself. And I never thought I’d get close to you all. I wasn’t about to waltz into the first meeting announcing that I was only in Marseilles because I’d quit the Royal, yeah?”

“No, I get that, but what about the night when we asked you about Éponine? It was a couple of weeks after we’d met you, so you knew we wouldn’t expose you to the press or anything, if that’s what you were worried about, and we wouldn’t tease you or get mad at you. But you told us you’d met Éponine at school, which I always thought was bullshit, because she said she went to a ballet academy for most of her schooling. And I think you knew I what I thought, but you stuck with it anyway.”

“It wasn’t a lie,” Grantaire mumbles into her cheek. “I just pretended it was a different school. And I didn’t know you thought it was bullshit. It was so much easier, and the longer the lie went on the more worried I was about you all seeing me differently. Which, by the way, I’m still worried about.”

“Oh, R,” she says, her voice softening, and he knows the interrogation is over. “Everything you do changes my view of you somehow. It’s complicated you, shown me more of your nuance, but you’re still Grantaire to me. It’s not going to change how I treat you.”

“What about the rest of them? I know they’re all so progressive and shit, but everyone’s got that bias about male dancers internalized. And even if they can get over that, my life story is on that Wikipedia page. Even if I wasn’t a dancer I doubt I would’ve told you shit about my parents anyway. It’s not something I want to share. I don’t want pity or, or nine new therapists all ready to tell me something about my psyche.”

“They wouldn’t. You’re not wrong about the bias, but you’re wrong if you don’t think they are all going to be reexamining a lot about their thoughts in the next couple of days. And it’s true that they know more than you would’ve told them, which is unfortunate, but I promise you they will not be bringing it up at all unless you broach the subject first.”

“God, Musichetta, just let me be fucking unhappy,” Grantaire groans, letting his head rest on her shoulder as the song winds down.

“We’re not about to stop dancing just because you’ve already had too much to drink. Look, I’m not going to pretend that this’ll be easy for you, or that those fuckers will be 100% accommodating to your mental state. And if you need some time to yourself, that’s fine. But locking yourself up and trying to drink this away isn’t going to help, okay?”

“Okay,” he says reluctantly, giving her a twirl. “You’ve got good rhythm. If you want to take up ballet, I hear there’s a spot open in London.”

She laughs at that, and then he starts laughing too at the absurdity of it all. Before long they’re standing still in the midst of high-energy couples giving them death glares, and he thinks maybe he can get through this.

 

 

The next morning he’s a little less sure. His alarm goes off at an ungodly hour and he has five minutes to get to the boulangerie. Zephine informs him that he looks like death warmed over, and it’s not the first time she’s threatened to fire him if he can’t put on a happy face for the customers.

He likes his job here, truly. It gives him something to do and takes his mind off whatever’s beyond the walls of the little bakery. He works the cash register most of the time, but he gets a lot of time to people-watch and try out Zephine’s creations. If it’s a particularly slow day, she sometimes sends him down to the laundromat or makes him babysit Oscar, her son. Today there’s a steady rush of people, so he sticks to the register and wrapping up bread for the customers. He chats to a few of the repeat offenders, already having their orders memorized.

When Éponine walks in the door just after the morning rush, his first thought is that she looks angry. She waits for him to finish up with the last customer in line before ducking behind the counter. Grantaire glances behind him, but Zephine slipped out after she put the last batch of baguettes in the oven.

“What’s up?” he asks, a little warily, as he wipes down the counter.

She whacks him in the arm. “You didn’t tell me they all found out.”

“Cos you were already asleep when I got home. You’dve hit me harder if I woke you up.”

“You’re not wrong, but a text or something would’ve been nice. Jesus.”

“I went out with Musichetta. Everything was fine, I swear.”

Éponine sighs and hoists herself up on the counter. “So you didn’t get drunk by yourself.”

“Why would you think I was drunk?” he teases, pushing her over so he can hang the towel back up.

“Oh, can it, I think you still are. How’d they even find out?”

“Our darling little revolutionary group now has a Wikipedia page. And apparently I do too, who would’ve known.”

Éponine smiles sweetly. “How did Enjolras respond?”

“I’m not talking to you,” he grumbles, rearranging baskets to avoid looking at her.

“I know his is the only opinion that matters to you.”

“That’s not true, and I’m still not talking to you,” he says as he disappears into the back.

“Get me some coffee, will you.”

There’s an incomprehensible sound, and Grantaire doesn’t emerge again until Éponine shouts to him that there’s a customer. “Machine doesn’t work anymore,” he tells Éponine before serving the businessman.

“Bullshit,” she mutters, but doesn’t make any move to go check either.

“Don’t you have rehearsal or something?” he asks her when he turns to grab a loaf of pain amondes for the man.

“Nah, Carlyle gave us the morning off. We have dress rehearsal tonight and performances starting tomorrow night.”

“Did you get me a ticket?”

“Yeah, for opening. There’s others left though if you'd rather go a different night. Turns out even little Mademoiselle Fauchelevent can’t get this pathetic tiny theater filled up.”

Grantaire turns to face her. “I’m sorry, Ep, you know I am.”

“It’s not your fault we’re here. I wanted to leave as bad as you did, and we both loved this place better than anywhere else. It’s Carlyle’s fault for not being able to produce some better goddamn ballets.”

Grantaire hears the back door swing open. “Go, go, get out of here. I’ll see you when you get home from rehearsal,” he says, shooing her off the counter.

She ducks back around the counter and turns around to face the register. “Hi, I’d like to order a coffee.”

“We only serve bread,” Grantaire laughs, and turns his back.

 

 

After his shift he lies down on the couch, fully intending to get up and do something productive as soon as he feels an ounce of motivation. But having already made the money he needs to sustain himself through the weekend, motivation isn’t extremely forthcoming.

He’s pretty proud of himself for having held it all together. And true, he’s only talked to a select few of les amis, but he’s had worse days after lesser incidents. As long as they all respect his boundaries, which they’re (sometimes annoyingly) prone to do, then he doesn’t need to worry too much about breaking down. They can all believe what’s on his Wikipedia page, and he can keep it together.

Just as he’s convinced himself that he might have enough energy to go make dinner, there’s a knock at the door. He groans as he gets up, and hopes whoever’s at the door can hear him.

It’s Marius, peering shyly at him. “Hi Grantaire.”

“Pontmercy! What brings you to my hovel?”

“I just. I just wanted to tell you, well maybe you knew? I think I’ve said it before, but I was a dancer too. For a while, really. My grandpa wanted me to go professional, so he pushed me into competitions and stuff. I just wanted you to know, I knew. I mean, I knew who you were. But no one ever talked about it, so I thought maybe that was just how things were? Like, everyone had already been a part of the group before me, so I thought maybe you didn’t want to talk about it and everyone else already knew that.”

Grantaire is oddly touched that this kid never even tried to bring it up with anyone. “Ah, I never thought they’d care to know. It takes a special kind of person to care about ballet,” he says nonchalantly, curling his lips up at the end.

“Well, they’re interested now. Courfeyrac was watching a video of you this morning. And I never- I never wanted to be a professional, but I always sort of admired you? You were really talented. Are really talented. And obviously I quit too, so I can’t blame you for leaving, even if I quit because I wasn’t any good, while you obviously…had different reasons.”

“You’re a kind man, Marius. Look, I’ve got this ticket to a show tomorrow night. It’s an excellent show, and there’s a pretty girl who I’m sure you’d love to see dance,” he winks, digging the ticket out from his jeans pocket and handing it to him.

 Marius studies him for a moment. “Thank you, R. Really.”

“Not a problem, my freckled friend.”

“I’ll see you at the Musain on Tuesday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

 

 

Grantaire’s asleep on the couch when Éponine gets back from rehearsal. He jerks awake, rubbing at his eyes. “There’s food from the boulangerie on the counter,” he tells her.

“Thank god. That rehearsal killed my feet. I just broke in my goddamn pointe shoes and the box is already falling apart the night before a performance.”

“All signs are pointe-ing towards bread fixing that problem,” he tells her as she unwraps the bag.

“You need to stop, Grantaire, I’m gonna get fat,” Éponine says, stuffing a brioche in her mouth.

“Oh stop, you’ll never be fat,” Grantaire says, curling an arm around her side. “You can eat anything and never gain a pound.”

“Yeah right. I can practically hear Carlyle. ‘Éponine, did you eat, gasp, _bread_ last night?’ What a sexist bitch. If I didn’t eat ten thousand calories a day I’d pass out in the middle of her workouts.”

“Can you imagine if Vladivov saw me now? ‘Grantaire, you’ve let yourself go. Wasting all that talent on baguettes.’” Éponine throws her head back and laughs.

“Sometimes I envy you, Grantaire, really. But where would we be if I wasn’t making money to refill your booze stash?”

“Excuse you, I’m the bread-winner in this house. I’m the one bringing in the dough.”

“Shut up!” she yells at him, tossing a middle finger as she grabs another brioche and retreats to the bathroom.

“Love you too,” he gripes playfully. He lands back on the sofa, fully intending to spend the night there.


	2. rarely pure, never simple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for recreational drug use and past heavy drug use.

Grantaire wakes up when the door slams shut after Éponine. He’s half draped over the couch, still wearing his clothes. He somehow seems to end up here more than his own bed, but for good reason- the couch is a cheap thing they picked up from off the street when they first moved here, but it has a reputation among the amis as the most comfortable sofa south of Paris. It’s thick and soft and impossibly easy to sink down into. Grantaire considers going back to bed, but he’s spent much of the last 24 hours sleeping and occasionally decides to be productive.

The task of the day, he settles on, is to patch up things with his friends. He still hasn’t even talked to Joly and Lesgles, who undoubtedly felt a little bit betrayed after learning he kept the most major part of his life from them. His phone has been dead since he went out with Musichetta, but he finds a charger in the kitchenette and plugs it in. While he waits for it to turn on, he sits on the counter and tears off bits of a baguette left from last night. He pokes a little bit at his tummy, thinking about the conversation he had with Ép last night. One of the best parts about leaving dance had been giving up the grueling routines that always left him with blistered feet and sore ankles. He doesn’t have to worry about what sleeping on the couch will do to his posture the next day. He can eat whatever he wants, not like he ever operated by a diet before, even when he was chided by every director and choreographer and dance partner. But having functioned entirely by discipline and not motivation for so many years has left him without any incentive to continue dancing. And true, he still pirouettes across the living room sometimes, or counts along to the beat of a song in 4/4 time, but he hasn’t thought so much about his dance career in months. He misses it, he guesses, but he’s never sure what parts of it he misses.

When his phone finally powers up, he sees that his friends have clearly been concerned about him. He’s got a text from Joly and Bossuet each, telling him that if he needs someone to talk to they’re there. To Joly he texts, "tell me something rad abt dinosaurs dear jolllly." And to Bossuet he says, "ur off the hook for dancing night w chetta. should probably have done that a while ago but it was too funny watching her snapchat videos of u trying to do the worm." He hopes that's good enough for them to forgive him- he doesn't need to say it for them to understand why he didn't tell them.

He’s got a text from Courf for an offer to get a coffee sometime, but Grantaire’s not quite sure if he’s ready for Courf’s particular brand of curious inquisitivity quite yet. He tells him maybe later in the week, if his work schedule allows for it. There’s a text from Bahorel, asking him to stay for drinks after Tuesday’s meeting. They normally do that anyway, and while Grantaire appreciates the fact that they’re all reaching out to him, he’s vaguely annoyed why they’re all choosing now to suddenly latch on to him. At least Feuilly’s text makes him laugh: “You liar, you told me you were graceful because you were a cat in a former life,” to which he replies, “i still think i was but you should have known cats aren’t as graceful as me.”

Jehan’s the only one whose offer he feels like taking up right now, which is that they’ve got a baggy of weed that’s not going to smoke itself. He texts them back, saying he’ll be over in an hour. He showers and attempts to brush his teeth (the only thing worse than toothpaste and weed is morning breath and weed). Then he walks over to the campus dorms. Weed’s technically not allowed in the dorms, but as far as he knows no one has ever gotten in trouble for it as long as they smoke out the windows.

He meets Jehan at the door so they can buzz him in with their student ID. Grantaire’s not enrolled at the college, not officially. He’s never paid a cent to the school, although he’s sat in on more classes than he can count. When he first got here, having so much free time became a burden. And although when he was in school he struggled with every subject, preferring to go out with friends or work on his dance routines than study, once he began taking classes for himself he found that it was a lot easier to learn. He no longer had to flounder through dense textbooks or study up for tests. Instead he got to take art classes for the first time in his life, learn about whatever subjects he stumbled upon.

Jehan hugs him once the door opens and leads him up to their room. They smell like jasmine, an almost sickly sweet floral odor that hangs around them and their dorm constantly. At least it covers the scent of what Grantaire thinks is quite possibly the most pungent incense he’s ever smelled. Jehan’s rambling about their cactuses sitting on the windowsill.

“How did they react? After I left?” Grantaire surprises himself when he blurts out the question. He didn’t realize how curious he was, but he supposes he is; they must have talked, and he knows they’re obviously all still focused on it. For fuck’s sake, Marius told him Courfeyrac was watching a video of him dancing. What if that’s what they all spent their evenings doing?

Jehan goes quiet. “Everyone was really worried about you, but I told them not to smother you. And then Enjolras and Combeferre started a conversation about boundaries. How we should treat you.”

Grantaire’s vaguely outraged and he doesn’t know why. “Boundaries? Like what?”

“Like we shouldn’t all jump at you and ask you why you quit. We should pretend we never learned the information unless you bring it up first, since it wasn’t your choice to reveal it.”

“I didn’t keep it from you because I don’t want to talk about it. I couldn’t give less of a shit if you asked me all the questions in the world about it, at least not now. It was a fresh start, it was new people who cared about something other than ballet. I didn’t think it’d make such a huge difference to you either way.”

“It was a big part of your life, R, even if it isn’t now,” Jehan says softly. “We all talked about why you might’ve decided not to tell us and why those were all valid reasons. It was a productive conversation, honestly.”

Grantaire knows why he’s angry now. The thought of the amis sitting around discussing him like he’s a cause, _Enjolras_ suggesting they should talk about him and his boundaries like he knows the first thing about him. “I’d rather everyone act like they do know, since it happened, and since you’re all going to see me differently now anyway,” he says, with a little bit more spite in his voice than he intends for Jehan.

“I don’t see you differently. It fits you quite well, actually,” they say, sitting on the ground.

Grantaire joins them. “Fits me well?”

“For you to be a dancer. Your posture is impeccable. And you always stand up without using your hands. That’s hard to do for us nonflexible people. And sometimes you stand with your feet turned out. Plus, it’s quite romantic, isn’t it? For you to have been a dancer and walked away. You’re the bad boy of dance.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Grantaire grumbles, looking down.

“You’ve got all those tattoos though, doesn’t that give you a rep?”

Grantaire laughs. “A little. You know, the people at the studio always hated them because I had to cover them up with makeup before performances. And it gets everywhere, you know, all over the white tutus of my partners. I was a menace.”

“Did you really just stop dancing? ‘Detachment being thought achievable at all is boggling in itself.’” Jehan says, folding their paisley-clad legs underneath them.

“Not entirely. It’s an addiction, it’s hard to go cold turkey. Now, it’s just not professionally. And I-“ Grantaire can feel his face heating up.

“What? Are you going to tell me you’re a stripper? Because I’m not going to say I knew, but-“

“My stripper name _is_ Mystic Bailey. So I’m cut out for that life. But all I do is teach dance classes at the Gymnase du Prado, to little girls in 10ème.”

Jehan squeals in delight. “You teach dance lessons?”

“I didn’t want to for so long. It was so much easier to separate myself from it. But the girls, they work so hard, and I want them to love ballet, not dread it.”

“Oh, oh! ‘Feelers of this kind must court dispassion just to be compassionate.’ They must adore you.”

Grantaire ducks his head. “They’ve got a show on Friday. If you wanted to come watch or something.”

“I’d be delighted.” Jehan beams.

“Now, I thought I came here for something.”

“Of course,” they say, pulling out their glass pipe. Jehan’s is shaped like a little elephant, colored in shades of blue and green. They set themselves to the undertaking of splitting up the pot and deseeding it while Grantaire leans back on his elbows.

“Can I ask you one thing?” Jehan says quietly, as though they hope Grantaire won’t really hear them.

“Yeah.”

“Why did you quit? I read the page, and I know it’s not true. There’s more to you than that.”

“Yeah,” he admits, and takes a breath in. “I was performing on coke every night and getting drunk afterward for years. I didn’t quit because of that. Or because I wanted to be rebellious, or because I hated dance so completely. It was- I was trying to be perfect for so many years, and I’m not. And it was going nowhere. There was no reason to keep going.”

“Hm.” Jehan seems to want to ask him something, but thankfully keeps their lips pursed as they load up the bowl of the bong. “Want the first hit?”

 

 

Jehan’s struck with creativity after their second high, so they start scribbling in their leather-bound journal. Grantaire lies on the floor and supplies them with synonyms when they ask, but eventually he gets restless. He stretches out on the floor, takes another hit, and even stands up and does a couple grands battements en cloch. Jehan watches him in awe as he hangs on to the edge of their bed, and then Grantaire suddenly feels self-conscious. He sits back down, but his fingers won’t stop drumming on his thighs. Eventually leaves Jehan to it and wanders back out on the campus.

He hardly knows where his feet are leading him until he’s at the gymnase. For a Saturday, it’s fairly empty, and no one’s using the dance studio. He locks the door behind him and strips down to just his sweatpants and ballet slippers. He hasn’t danced, not really, in years, but he’s still got a pair of worn-down Capezios that’ve lasted him through months of teaching dance lessons. They mold around his feet, just like his old practices. He lies down and rolls up spine by spine, hearing his back crack. He can gross out even Éponine by cracking his joints, but that’s inevitable after 18 years of dancing.

He stands and does a glissade into a grand jeté, making it almost all the way across the studio in one leap. He’s breathing hard when he lands and considers just leaving now. But a wall has fallen down within him, and he has to keep going. It takes almost no effort for him to think of ten more steps to do, another jump, another landing. The moves come easily to him, even when he thought he’d forgotten all about them.

There’s pure fire in his chest. He had lost passion for this after hours and days and months of endless rehearsals. Then he had started doing coke during rehearsals. People knew, he was sure, but it didn’t matter. The highs gave him endless energy, sharpened his perception of the world and his movements. It gave him a reason to dance again. He only allowed himself to snort right before performances, and maybe if he’d kept using it he would have kept dancing.

Now, as he does a double tours en l’air, he feels everything a bit too strongly. It’s owing, he’s sure, to the pot, but he doesn’t care as long as he feels the familiar motions undulating their way through his body. His eyes close and he feels almost human again.

 

 

When he finally stops, his chest is rising and falling quickly. He feels reckless, unhinged, the way that he forgot dance could make him feel. He can feel himself coming down from his high and simultaneously losing any sort of urge to dance. His muscles ache from disuse and his feet are bleeding through the shoes. He still can’t quite figure out why he suddenly felt the urge to dance for so long, but it feels almost good. His lungs burn and it takes a long time for him to get his shirt and boots back on.

The light outside surprises him. Grantaire feels like it’s been hours since he began his frantic dancing, but he’s just realizing the full toll that his hiatus has taken on his body. The weed contributed to it too, he’s sure, but his range of motion is shot. He’s winded and sore after only a couple hours of dancing. He’d forgotten so many tricks for each move- how to land, when to turn.

For the first time, he feels _something_ about quitting dance. When he first walked away, he was sure he’d regret it eventually, or maybe he’d end up feeling like he made the right decision, or he’d get angry at himself for leaving. Instead, it was ambivalence. He’d cut it out of his life entirely and it was almost scary how easy it was.

Now, it’s not regret, happiness, or anger. It’s the realization that it did mean something to him, even though he spent years convincing himself it didn’t.

He can’t handle the weight of this awareness right now. He pretends it’s any other day after a practice. He stops by a café and orders steak et frites, scarfing it down to fuel both his pot and dance hangovers. He responds to his friends’ texts while he eats. They mean their best, and he appreciates the effort when he thinks about it, he just really wishes the effort didn’t have to be made.

His own fault for not telling them to start, he thinks, and continues eating.

 

R’s in the shower trying to wash off his sweat when Éponine barges in. She’s still tearing off her coat viciously.

“Thanks a-fucking-lot Grantaire, Marius showed up to our fucking performance and fell in love with fucking Cosette-“

“Wait- what?” Grantaire says, turning the water off and grabbing the towel she throws at him.

“ _Someone,_ ” she says viciously, “gave Marius a ticket to our fucking performance and told him there would a pretty girl there for him to fucking fall in love with. And of _course_ he sees the perfect fucking principal and falls in love with her on sight.”

“Ép, I meant you! I meant you would be there-“ Grantaire protests weakly.

“Fuck you, Grantaire, can’t you stay out of shit that’s not yours to get into? I don’t care what you thought, he showed up to my dressing room after the show and asked me all about her and told me to give a note to her. Do you even understand, Grantaire, do you?” She spins around and walks out of the bathroom, leaving him to struggle to get his boxers on and follow her.

“I’m so sorry Ép, I swear. You shouldn’t have to put up with that shit-“

“Isn’t this the shit I put up with all the time, Grantaire? You think your problems are so bad and then you go and make mine worse.” It’s no secret that she’s been in love with Marius for months, but they don’t talk about it. Grantaire feels bad for her, he really does.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, desperately, but she just slams the door on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you’re wondering, Grantaire’s reference to his stripper name is from the quiz where you put together the name of the street you grew up on and your first pet’s name to get what your stripper name should be (Mystic Bailey is actually my own, and I feel it’s fitting for him). Jehan’s quotes are both paraphrased from Not Over It by Heather McHugh, and the chapter title comes from this quote from Oscar Wilde: “The truth is rarely pure and never simple.” Hope you enjoyed, you can find me here [on tumblr](ridiculousinconvienientlove.tumblr.com)!


	3. not trying to be revolutionary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger/content warning for alcoholism, potentially gross description of feet/blood?, self-hate, internalized homophobia including self use of a slur, and depression.

R’s pretty convinced he’s not going to the meeting. Their Sunday meetings are more unofficial- more unwieldy, so to say. More often than not they end in several members of les amis bemoaning the fact that they will show up to their early morning classes the next day hungover. These are the only meetings that Ép can come to- she’s got rehearsal on Tuesdays and Thursdays- which always spices things up. But she’s certainly not going to be going today, and he spent half of last night drinking. When Sunday afternoon rolls around he’s content to stay in his bed and text excuses to those of them that will assume his non-attendance is due to the catastrophe of the last meeting.

He blasts some tinny alt rock in his headphones and drinks cognac from a plastic mug. His arms and legs ache in a way he hasn’t been able to remember in years. He’s lying on his stomach, occasionally rolling his head back in an attempt to crack his spine. Another benefit of his position is not having to look at his feet, covered in blisters. The calluses he had once had are worn away and only scar tissue remains. A blood blister popped sometime in the night and he’s really regretting thinking that the years-old dance shoes would hold up to a routine like that.

There’s a rap at the door, and one headphone slides out. He almost feels he deserves whatever Éponine’s gonna tell him now.

“Are you ready to go yet, asshole?”

“To the meeting?”

“Of course to the meeting, dipshit.”

He struggles out of his sheets, even bothering to slide on a pair of jeans before opening the door. “I assumed we weren’t going.”

“Put a shirt on. We’re leaving in ten.” The only makeup she has on so far is a heavy-duty concealer packed on under her eyes. Grantaire can’t say he hasn’t used that trick multiple times to hide hangovers, coming down from a high, or crying, but she should know he sees through it.

“Okay,” he says, because when she’s like this, he listens. In a way, he’s glad they’re going; he doesn’t want things to change with him and les amis. But he would have never dreamed of going without her. She’s his barrier, ice cold words when he can’t deliver them.

He slides on a t-shirt and grabs, after a second of thought, a pair of thick-knit socks. Ép’s already sitting by the door, sliding on her shoes. She’s got full makeup on now, thick eyeliner and so much mascara her eyelashes droop. She hardly acknowledges him at first when he slides down to sit next to her and pull his socks on, until-

“Jesus Christ Grantaire, what happened to your feet?”

“I danced.”

“Mine haven’t looked like that since my first pair of pointe shoes in Kiev,” she laughs. She’s deflecting, but she doesn’t need to do it for him now. He would’ve happily told her about it last night if he hadn’t fucked up giving Marius that ticket.

“Yeah, well, that’s what you get when you wear shoes that are already falling apart. And spend 3 hours getting 3 years of pent-up dance energy out of you.”

“You still any good?” she says, elbowing him in the ribs.

“Oh, yeah. You think they’d take me back?” he jibes.

“Not with feet like that. You’re not gonna be able to walk for a week.”

“That might be true, but I bet the chick I banged can barely stand-“

“Shut up, I live with you. I know when you’re getting some and when you’re most definitely not.”

Grantaire clutches at his chest like he’s been shot. “Dear Éponine, you insult my honor so? You know I’m always a slut for public bathroom sex. No need to bother my darling roommate.”

Éponine hoists herself up. “Isn’t bothering me your favorite part of hooking up though?”

“No, my favorite part of hooking up is getting to assert my dominance over any woman willing to come to bed with me.”

“Hey. That’s not funny, Grantaire.”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows at her. He’d never have said it around Musichetta, but he thought Éponine was cool with these things.

“You don’t get to ‘assert your dominance’ just because someone wants to sleep with you. There’s got to be equal power for there to be consent.”

“I was joking. You know I turn into a mess in bed when I’m drunk, there’s no way I’m dominant.”

“Intent matters even in jokes, Grantaire,” she says curtly.

 _God, when did you turn into one of them,_ he thinks, but he knows better than to say it. She’s right, of course, but sometimes his mind doesn’t think about the implications of his words.

Éponine hoists herself up. “Let’s just go to the fucking meeting.” She offers him a hand and he takes it. She pulls him up with a little more force than necessary and he can tell the mood’s changed.

“I’m sorry about Marius, Ép,” he murmurs, brushing his hand against hers.

“It’s not your fault. I overreacted.”

“Still, I didn’t mean-“

“It happened. It’s whatever,” she says. That’s not true.

“You sure you want to go today?”

“I’m about two seconds away from smacking you, Grantaire.”

He knows when not to push things. She opens the door and he follows her out.

 

 

Joly and Bossuet give him a bear hug the moment he’s in the door. He’d be peeved, but this is the way they greet him half the time anyway. He goes with them to their table with Musichetta, while Ép joins Bahorel and Feuilly. The JBM trio has already ordered drinks, much to Grantaire’s delight. He’s more than happy to mooch off the others’ pitchers of beer and abandoned cocktails.

“I’m still considering you a traitor, just so you know,” Bossuet says, pouting.

“I, a traitor? I am as much of one as Dreyfus. Lies and slander, all of it. Ask Musichetta- I am worthless at swing dancing.”

“You are very good at swing dancing. Perhaps that should have been your career instead.”

“I’m already trying to find a way to get out of it after only one night. Career? Psh. I can keep with ballet for mere hours at a time.”

“Is it true that ballet dancers get a lot of ankle injuries?” Joly inquires, putting his elbows on the table and resting his chin on his hands.

“Depends on the shoes you’ve got. The cardboard pointe shoes in Kiev, they ruined many careers. Me, I had a broken ankle once and a couple of sprains, but they treat the principals well. Lots of rest and Ace bandages.”

Joly’s poised to ask something else, but Musichetta hits him under the table and Grantaire’s not sure why. He doesn’t care if they ask him questions. It feels a little bit liberating, actually, to finally be able to be who he is. Even if he’s never been particularly happy with his dance past, or the fact that he quit.

It doesn’t end up mattering, because Combeferre begins speaking.                    

“We’ve got just a few items on the agenda, so we’re going to get started. First of all, everyone will be happy to hear that two of the major agitators at the last protest have been prosecuted on accounts of aggravated assault. Two more are being held on charges of disorderly conduct. All charges against anyone involved with the movement have been dropped after Courfeyrac, Enjolras, and I went in earlier this week to discuss the intent of the movement and our actions.”

There’s some clapping and cheers, but Grantaire is watching Enjolras. He seems distracted tonight. He keeps tapping his pen against the desk, tucking curls behind his ears, and sticking his tongue out ever-so-slightly as he scribbles a few words.

He only looks up when Combeferre begins speaking about the goddamn Wikipedia page again. “It’s been updated since the last meeting, this time with a link to the online campus newspaper with a story about the protest. We’ve met a few people at the paper in the past few days, meaning hopefully our future actions will be covered, and in a positive light.”

“And about the negative media?” Courfeyrac reminds him, touching his arm without looking up.

Grantaire sometimes wishes he could have that easy companionship the two of them have. They fit together well. They’re not dating, as far as he knows, although he’s not sure he could tell the difference if they started.

Combeferre takes a deep breath. “We have had some negative media attention. Many people don’t want us to move beyond the university, and many in the administration are concerned about what we may choose to do next. They are afraid because they have seen us gain power. Of course, the administration cannot take much action against us now; we don’t receive funding from them and are technically not a university club. However, we do want to make sure that we get enough positive media representation in the future, and…” Grantaire blocks him out and turns to his drink, deeming his reveries far more important than talk of an article.

 

 

When they begin splitting up to get drinks or look at the news page on Enjolras’s iPad, Grantaire sidles up to Éponine.

“Ép, you marvelous land mermaid, joy of my life and the only ray of hope in this otherwise meaningless existence-“

“What do you want?”

Grantaire smiles sweetly. “I will literally die if someone doesn’t massage the knot out of my back and us ballet dancers, we do for family, right?”

Ép lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Sit down.”

Grantaire whoops and settles in the chair in front of her. He swears her hands work magic. Her thumbs push into the perfect place on his back and he lets out a long moan, leaning back into her touch.

When his eyes flutter open, half the room is looking at him. Sometimes he forgets that not everyone is a dancer and understands the idiosyncrasies associated with being one.

“I forgot how good a massage can feel after dancing, is’all,” he tells them, letting out another moan and throwing his head back when he can finally feel the kink in his back relaxing.

When he opens his eyes Enjolras is staring at the two of them, looking flustered. Grantaire maintains eye contact as he lets out a sigh of pleasure. Enjolras’s eyes flash away.

Ép pats him on the back lightly. “That’s all I’m doing for you, sweetheart. Take those moans to bed.”

He turns around to make his response, but sees her grabbing her purse and jacket. “You’re leaving?”

“Yeah. Can’t afford to get drunk, not before more rehearsals and a performance tomorrow night.”

“Okay. Want me to walk you home?”  
“I’m fine.” She slips out without fanfare, and it’s not until he turns back around that he realizes why she left so suddenly. Marius has just slid in the door and looks flushed.

Enjolras commands the attention of the room once more. “Tonight we would also like to start discussing our next move after the success of the last protest-“

Marius is whispering excitedly to Joly and Bossuet, and Grantaire has just stood up to join them. “Is there something you’d like to share, Marius?” Enjolras asks, not masking his irritation well.

“I met a girl,” Marius says, and he’s somehow still breathless even though it’s been well over 24 hours since he first saw her. “She’s a dancer, and I saw her perform last night, and then I went back to the show today, and she’s so beautiful-“

Oh shit. There was a matinee this afternoon, probably while Grantaire was still asleep or trying to stave off his hangover. He didn’t even ask Éponine how it went. He’s a dick sometimes, truly.

“Marius, would you like a drink?” Grantaire says, offering over his beer.

Marius takes perhaps a more generous sip than he would normally. “She was like a dream, the way she could move, and she’s got such beautiful _hair_ , and I only know her name because of Éponine.”

“In love at last! Ah, Enjolras, how could you deny some airtime to this young love?” he jibes, watching Enjolras’s expression shift. Sometimes it’s like a game, seeing if he can get to Enjolras.

“We have to focus,” Enjolras says resolvedly, shifting his gaze. “We don’t have time for distractions if we wish to make a change. There are issues bigger than our lives.” Grantaire can’t tell if Enjolras is arguing with him or with Marius.

“My dear Marius, this girl sounds so interesting. Tell me more about her.”

“Oh Grantaire, if you could see her! As soon as she came out on stage, I _knew_. She was illuminated on stage and moved like she didn’t have to try at all. She took away my breath.”

“Is that not as important as some extra fees? What’s money in the face of love?” Grantaire directs this at Enjolras, pushing him on.

“Marius, this is not the time. Our singular goals, ambitions, and even loves do not matter when we have causes that affect so many people.” Enjolras is stern, directing attention back to his agenda.

Grantaire feels vaguely hurt that Enjolras doesn’t even address him. He can’t get Enjolras’s attention, even when he’s the problem. He sinks back to the table, all motivation to try and get at him gone. Enjolras preaches, and Grantaire listens like he’s kneeling before the pulpit.

 

 

When he gets home it’s pitch-black and he feels more than a little bit tipsy. He bumps into everything on his way in the door. His flannel and boots come off by the door, and he has to stop to get a glass of water.

He knocks almost imperceptibly on Éponine’s door so as not to wake her, but he should have known she wouldn’t be asleep. She’s propped up on her pillows and without looking up from her phone she pats the bed next to her. “Might as well slide in.”

She’s still got the same bedspread she had when she was 6, a threadbare purple thing emblazoned with ballerinas. It’s quite possibly the most comfortable thing he’s ever gotten the privilege to curl up under, but he has the feeling she’s held on to it for more than coziness. He climbs under and pulls a pillow close.

He came here to talk to her about Marius, but he’s not going to broach the subject unless she does first. She looks okay; better than last night, at least, so maybe she’s coping with it better than he thought. Better than he would, but that’s a given with most situations.

“So are we going to talk about the way Enjolras was looking at you?” she says.

“He wasn’t looking at me.” Grantaire buries his face in her pillow.

“Yes, he so was, and he definitely looked like he was trying to hide a hard-on when you were moaning.”  
That makes Grantaire vaguely uncomfortable, and he’s not sure why. He wants to retain the images to himself, even if they make him feel dirty.

“Why don’t you make a move on him?” Ép asks when he doesn’t respond.

“Who ever said I wanted to make a move on him?”

“Oh, R,” she says, and there’s so much pity in her voice that he wants to get up and leave right now. “We all know. Well, most of us.”

His face turns up. “You know? You know what?”

“That you’re in love with him. You’ve said almost as much to me.”

“I didn’t mean- not like that-“

Éponine looks puzzled. “Do you love him?”

“You just assumed I was- I was gay?” he spits out.

She stops. “I’ve never thought about it much, but you’ve talked about how he’s Adonis and Apollo and you obviously adore him- it didn’t seem exactly _no homo_ , I guess. Was that the wrong assumption?”

“I’m not-“ Hot, angry tears make tracks down Grantaire’s face. “I don’t want to be the- the fucking _fag_ ballet dancer-“

Éponine’s quiet. “You wouldn’t be the only one.”

That sobers Grantaire. He wipes his eyes with the back of a hand. “Wait- you? But I thought Marius-“

She cuts him off sharply. “You can like both genders, Grantaire. Don’t you ever pay attention in meetings?”

Grantaire is aware that Courf is far from straight and that Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta are all in a relationship together. Terms like polygamous, aromantic, and pansexual are thrown around like common jargon, but Grantaire’s never made an extra attempt to understand them all. People can love whoever they want, and he doesn’t care. But he’d never considered it for himself. From when he was young, he knew he never aspired to grow up and marry one person. And yet still, whenever he was forced to envision his future he saw himself with a girl.

Except. Except when he met Enjolras and everything went to hell. He’s been achingly in love with him for years, even without knowing it. He can see himself with Enjolras in a way- kissing his neck, holding his hand- but it’s always felt like a dream, at least in part because he knows he will never have him. His love for Enjolras is different than any girlfriend he’s ever had- it’s admiration and belief and a deep, deep longing.

Ép rubs his back. “You don’t need to tell me now if you don’t want to. I’m sorry for assuming.”

“No, I guess I might be,” he says hesitantly, still holding back a choked sob. “I- you’re right, I love him.” It feels like a confession, even to himself. He’s never said it aloud before. There’s an excitement that bubbles up inside of him. _I love him_.

“I think I know you better than you do, R,” she says, with a small smile.

“Of course you do.” He curls up next to her. “So it’s what- bisexual? You too?”

“Yeah.” She wraps an arm around him. “Bisexual, if I have to call it something. It’s not a big deal, Grantaire, really.”

“I’m sorry for being a dick.”

“You’re not a dick. Not on purpose. Most of the time.”

“I’m sorry all the same.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too, Ép.”

 

 

Even cuddling with Éponine under her bedspread hadn’t gotten Grantaire to sleep at a reasonable hour last night. He’d been up late thinking about his latest revelation. He’s not sure he’s entirely comfortable with it yet, but he’s not sure why. His first instinct when Éponine told him she was bi was to assure her that he loved her anyway, that it didn’t change anything- so why did he assume it changed everything for him?

Everyone probably knows, he thinks. He kept his ballet past from them, but he hasn’t exactly been covert with his glances at Enjolras, or even the flirting he justified as just being teasing. Everyone knows he’s gay, and it hasn’t changed their view of him. And that’s fine, he knows it is, but he’s still not okay with everyone knowing he’s in love with Enjolras.

Because if everyone knows, then Enjolras knows. And if Enjolras knows, then he obviously doesn’t reciprocate the emotions. And that’s okay. Grantaire knows it’s okay. He wants Enjolras with all his heart, but he never thought for an instant he’d really have him. He’s spent much of the past three years antagonizing Enjolras, intentionally or not. Even his nonbelief in the causes would be enough for Enjolras to hate him, and Grantaire understands that. But as hard as he tries, he can’t bring himself to believe in anything but Enjolras.

Today’s a bad day, when everything overwhelms him. His thoughts fill his mind and he can’t fill the hole with anything else. He calls Zephine and tells her the truth- well, mostly. She knows he’s not always mentally stable enough to come to work, and she’s been accommodating. Even if that makes Grantaire feel even more worthless, more unproductive, more like he’s manipulating everyone around him to feel bad for him. But he doesn’t feel like he’s got the strength- mentally or physically- to stand behind a counter for 8 hours.

He’s on his couch wrapped up in a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles blanket staring vacantly at the Family Feud reruns playing on his TV when there’s a knock on his door. He strongly considers not answering at all. When he’s too tired to drink, he’s too tired to put up a farce with people. But there’s another knock, and if it’s a package for Éponine she would absolutely kill him.

It’s not. It’s Enjolras, in a soft blue button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, holding a folder. He says nothing at first, and Grantaire has to pool so much energy in that moment that he’s afraid he’ll have to sleep for the next few years just to make up for it.

“Ah, Enjolras! I was wondering when you would be coming by to berate me,” he says brightly, pasting a smile on his face.

Enjolras’s eyes harden, and his face scrunches up almost imperceptibly. “That’s not what I want to do, Grantaire,” he says. “I understand that ballet is a very intensive lifestyle, and I respect your decision to quit-“

“That’s a very impressive speech that Combeferre’s put together.”

Enjolras makes a deeply frustrated noise without opening his mouth, and Grantaire has to admit that even he doesn’t want to see Enjolras like this. But it’s impossible for him to stop winding him up when he gets going.

“And props to you for memorizing it, and not even having to use a notecard-!”

“That’s not why I’m here, Grantaire,” he says, taking a deep breath. “Your decisions are your decisions, and that is my honest opinion. I’m sure many of the others would like to have a conversation with you about why you quit if you were open for it, but if you don’t want to discuss it it’s not our place to barge in.”

All Grantaire can hear are the words _the others_ echoing over and over again. Trust Enjolras to not have an opinion at all, because he could give no less of a shit about Grantaire. “Then why are you here, O Fearless Leader, if not to sit me down behind an interrogation table and shine a light on me?”

Enjolras looks mildly annoyed, but presses on. “We’re looking for some lesser profile projects while the media calms down about the protest, and-“

 _I know,_ Grantaire wants to say. _Despite what you think, I do listen to what you say at the meetings._ “Wait, but weren’t you the one that said ‘revolution never sleeps’? And here I thought you were a man of your word-“

“COAT DRIVE! A coat drive, Grantaire, we’re doing a coat drive to donate to a refugee camp in Ukraine. We thought perhaps you would want to help us out, seeing as it is your motherland…”

For a moment Grantaire feels irrationally angry, and then he just feels exhausted. He slumps against the doorframe, acutely aware now of the fact that he’s wearing a dirty t-shirt and boxers with a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles blanket draped around his shoulders. “No, Enjolras,” he says, his tone sobered and sounding ten years older in an instant. “Just because you know something now about my past that, mind you, _I didn’t even want you to know_ , changes nothing about how I feel about your causes.”

Enjolras’s face contorts for a moment, and how the _fuck_ can he stay so perfectly composed and committed to his fucking coat drive all the time? “I just wanted to open the offer up, Grantaire. We need signs designed and your expertise would be valuable.”

“I won’t,” he says. He could, but the fact that Combeferre probably came up with this idea last night as a way for Enjolras to reconcile with Grantaire pisses him off more than he can show.

"Jesus, Grantaire, you began dancing again, so I thought maybe there was more to you! If you can put effort into that, I don't understand why you wouldn't want to put effort into this too!"

“I haven’t begun dancing again. It was once. If you think there’s more to me than what you see, you’re dead wrong,” he says, making a gesture at himself.

Enjolras turns away for a moment, and Grantaire is prepared to close the door, and then Enjolras spins on his heel in a smooth gesture. “This isn’t about a grand cause, Grantaire, at least not if you don’t want it to be. A coat drive has real, immediate, and tangible benefits for communities, and contributing, besides being a moral action, is bound to make you feel better about yourself-“

“You don’t know shit about me, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and the door closes almost without his recognition of it happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed! The last scene is where this fic really started and I might love it a little bit. Also, this work now has [ fanart ](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4495788/chapters/10221684) by the lovely saltkettle! Please check it out, it's so beautiful and ahh I'm in love.   
> I am here [on tumblr](ridiculousinconvienientlove.tumblr.com)!  
> Chapter title is from Commentators by City and Colour.


	4. what happened to that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Bulletproof Weeks by Matt Nathanson. CW again for depression and alcoholism.

Tuesday he shows up to the meeting as always. He senses an almost-question from Enjolras, but he places himself strategically far back in the room. Whenever the fog clears itself from his mind and he can be convinced to leave the house, he always ends up feeling a little bit silly. He wasted all of yesterday doing absolutely nothing- not earning money, not even getting plastered. In fact, all he managed to do is fuck up his tentative relationship with Enjolras.

Of course, it’s not like that was ever a possibility anyway. Maybe if he really was the guy Enjolras had come looking for the day before, he would be able to love him. If he could hold those ideals too, and fight for them with all his heart.

But he’s not. His belief is a shriveled, twisted thing, and the only place he’s ever been able to invest it is in the man standing in front of the room, about to begin the meeting.

Nothing of importance happens. Enjolras talks about the coat drive, saying it’s important to reconnect with the group’s original altruistic intent to do good in the world, no matter how small. He doesn’t mention Grantaire, but everyone sneaks glances at him. _It has nothing to do with me_ , he wants to tell them, _trust me_. But when they split up into committees- advertising and organizing and financial- they don’t let Grantaire sit off to the side. Joly, Jehan, and Feuilly- the only other artistic ones of the group- decide to set up shop at his table. It’s already crowded with several empty glasses and bottles and has the worst lighting in the entire space. They don’t say anything to him, and Grantaire can’t decide if they legitimately thought he had an interest in making posters or if they’re trying to do damage control for Enjolras. None of them know that Enjolras has already talked to him about this. He wants to tell them, to let them know that this wasn’t a callous move by Enjolras. If he really didn’t want the group to get involved, he could have told Enjolras as much the day before. But he doesn’t give a shit about what they choose to spend their time doing. He just doesn’t want Enjolras to assume he’s different- committed to anything- only because he has a back story.

Joly’s talking about the poster designs. “Clear lines would be best, don’t you think? Colorblocking to draw attention to the information and not necessarily to the group running it.”

“But there should be some sort of image on it- not only coats, but gloves or hats maybe,” Jehan suggests.

They keep looking at him expectantly like he’s about to contribute, and he gives in. “The details don’t matter if the poster won’t grab their attention in the first place. Images would be good, but a slogan would be best.”

Joly beams like Grantaire’s back to earth with them. Grantaire takes a generous sip of his beer for good measure and tries to keep his gaze from drifting to Enjolras.

“Then let’s think of slogans. Joly, you’re on pun duty. Jehan, you get to make sure it’s poetic enough. Rhyming maybe. I’ll be the voice of reason,” Feuilly says.

“What about me?” Grantaire says, faking offense.

“Whatever you come up with is going to be dirty. You can draw out a poster design, if you’d like.”  
Grantaire puts a piece of paper in front of him, fully intending to ignore the order to not come up with his own obscene slogans. He hears Joly- “Hang with us-“ and Jehan- “Give us your coat, it’ll save a sore throat-“ spouting out terrible catchphrases as Feuilly begins to groan.

 

A half hour later, Grantaire’s got a poster draft almost complete. Big block letters going down the page proclaim, “I WANT YOU INSIDE ME.” The “you” is nestled within a coat. He’s pretty proud of his work, and about to present it to Feuilly to be deemed acceptable (doubtful), when he spots something out of the corner of his eye. His head whips up.

Enjolras stands before their table, looking ready to confront the world. “You said you were unwilling to help.”

Grantaire feels caught in a lie. “Ah, but these kind fellows have put a glass before me and a pencil in my hand. Work is for the weary. I could arrange this whole event if you only asked.”

“What do you know of planning? You would leave us with all the work to do the night before, while you go out to drink.”

 _O ye of little faith_ , thinks Grantaire. “You don’t trust me? I would do anything for you.”

“I wouldn’t trust you with a minute of my time. You don’t believe in making the world a better place.”

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. The world would be a better place if we all had a glass in our hand.” It’s not far from the truth, really, not far from the way he sees the world. But Enjolras with a glass in his hand would make the world a worse place. Despite popular belief, he doesn’t wish to knock their leader off his feet. But Grantaire can never be him, and it kills him to try.

Enjolras puts his hand down on the table, leaning closer to Grantaire. “I can’t depend on you either. You keep nipping off to the bathroom, so you’re either on coke or you’ve got dysentery, and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen you sober!”

“I was sober yesterday,” Grantaire says, suddenly restrained. “Not even alcohol is to blame for my doubt.”

“Enjolras,” Feuilly says. Enjolras looks like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“Grantaire, I would entrust you with nothing. The fumes of alcohol would consume our causes.” Enjolras retreats back to his table, and Feuilly immediately looks over to Grantaire. Before he can open his mouth, Grantaire slides his poster over to him with a smirk.

“The fumes of alcohol have blessed me with an endless supply of lewd jokes,” Grantaire says. “At least I’ve proven him right.”

 

Grantaire knows Enjolras isn’t exactly what he’s built up in his head for years. But sometimes that image is all he can cling to, and he thinks he could forgive Enjolras for anything falling outside that perfect template as an anomaly. He’d forgive Enjolras if he so much as breathed in Grantaire’s direction. He always will, he thinks. He lights up a cigarette when his hands start shaking. He’s never been so close to losing Enjolras forever.

There was a time, when he first started coming to les amis meetings, when he thought he and Enjolras might be able to be friends. But he can’t hold a civil conversation with him, and certainly not when they’re along. So he’s been content with loving from afar. But Enjolras might just snap. He’s never made such an explicit comment about his drinking before. If Grantaire’s distraction from a coat drive was too much today, what will it be when he resumes trying to change the world?

When he gets home, Ép’s painting her nails on the sofa. It’s something Grantaire has warned her about, but she’s got just enough finesse to not spill the dark purple polish everywhere. _You’ve got a performance tomorrow,_ he thinks, _they’re going to make you take it off._ But he’s not one to talk, what with getting new tattoos days before performances. It hurt like a bitch to cover them up when they were still so tender and more often than not they bled after he washed up, but when he thinks back on that time he doesn’t remember feeling any pain. And it’s not like nail polish remover hurts, after all, so he joins her without a word.

“How was the meeting?”

“Fine. How was your performance?”  
“Shitty. Musichetta told me Enjolras was being a dick.”

 _Way to cut to the chase._ “Dick is a relative term, really-“

“He brought up your drinking, Grantaire, and frankly that’s not something he’s allowed to have an opinion about.”

“I think I opened myself up to whatever opinion he might choose to form when I started drinking in his meetings.”

“No, Grantaire, you really haven’t. You’re a part of les amis as much as he is. You affect the group, even if he doesn’t like the way you do it.”

Grantaire doesn’t know how to respond. He deserves whatever Enjolras wants to tell him, at this point. Not even Éponine knows what he said to Enjolras yesterday.

“You have to promise me, R.”

“Promise you what?”

“You can’t get close to him. I know I told you to make a move, but he’s just going to hurt you. It’s obvious he doesn’t care about you.”

“I’ve never given him a reason to.”

“Oh, hun.” Éponine has finished her nails and starts on Grantaire’s. “For someone who’s so intent on making the world a better place, he hasn’t quite gotten the concept down that everyone’s got worth.”

“Maybe he and I agree on one thing.”

Éponine’s stern. “Grantaire. You have to promise me. I don’t care how bad your drinking is, no one deserves anything like that.”

“Fine, Ép, I promise. Not like it was ever going to happen anyway.”

She blinks at him. “I would chide you for having no hope, but I think you should channel that into getting over him.”

“That’s not going to happen either.”

Éponine purses her lips, still painting his nails. “Try. For me.”

 

The week passes, as weeks tend to do. Wednesday night he has his dance lesson to teach at the Gymnase du Prado. The girls always get so giggly around him, and since it’s their last rehearsal he lets them goof off a bit. He never remembers feeling this carefree, and he likes the flexibility that the studio gives him to let them learn at their own pace. There’s no excuse, he thinks sometimes, to make a child into an adult so soon. Even if it gives them a professional career.

They do a full run through of their piece, and Grantaire is so proud. He loves kids way more than adults. They don’t care about making the world a better place, and yet somehow they always know how to brighten each other’s day. He’s got a collection of friendship bracelets tied around his wrists from when the girls all seemingly simultaneously went through that stage and most of their practices end with a few of them attempting to braid his hair. He’s hit with a pang of sadness when he sends them all off with their parents, but he gives pinky-promises to see them all at their performance.

He purposefully asks Zephine for a Thursday night shift, and uses it as his excuse when multiple members of les amis ask him if he will be there. Joly and Bossuet come by after his shift and tell him about all the antics of the meeting, but Grantaire can tell it was much more productive than the last one. The reverse correlation between his presence and what the group achieves isn’t a new one, and it isn’t a coincidence. Sometimes it feels like enough to keep him from the group, but he’s always drawn back, and they probably all know why.

Grantaire tries to take Éponine’s advice into serious consideration, but it’s hard when all he can think about is _Enjolras._ Sometimes Enjolras seems less like a person to him and more like a figurehead, a Liberty Leading the People into battle. Every glint of sunlight, every reference to changing the world, every thought of idealism makes Grantaire think of him. He can’t believe he didn’t realize he was in love with him sooner. Every thought leads back to him. Even when Grantaire knows that Enjolras doesn’t love him and never will, all he can think about is his ability to see a new world.

When Éponine arrives home she knows he’s not in a good place. However, she doesn’t seem to give a shit about catering to his fucked up headspace at the moment.

“Are you really going to mope around all week?”

“Seemed like a fantastic plan to me, yeah.” He doesn’t look at her.

“Jesus, Grantaire, get a hobby.”

“I’ve tried some of those, but the whole ‘pining after an unrequited love’ is the only one really sticking for me-“

“Why don’t you paint?”

Grantaire takes a drink. She sits down on his legs, and he curls back into himself. “There’s nothing in my world worth painting.”

“There’s Enjolras.”

He’s exasperated. “Christ, Ép, you tell me to go after him, then you tell me to stay away, and now you’re telling me I should paint him?”

“If I had known you would get so depressed I would never have told you that. Look, I know the _concept_ of him makes you happy, and I don’t want to take that away from you, but. Sometimes a concept isn’t good enough. Especially if that concept isn’t real, and can’t be.”

She’s speaking from experience. She’s not over Marius yet, but she’s trying her best to be. But she’s stronger than him, always has been.

“I’m working on it.”

She seems at least kind of satisfied with that answer. Silence lingers between them, but it’s not uncomfortable. Éponine pours herself a drink before dropping what’s the really big news of the week.

 “You should know. Floréal’s here.”

Grantaire thinks he jerks to alertness at that. He hasn’t heard the name since they left London. He and Floréal danced together in _Coppélia_ , which led to his first real relationship. They’d fucked, and then she came back and for some inconceivable reason tolerated him for almost 5 months. He’d loved her. He’d loved her, and it wasn’t a surprise at all when she broke up with him. He and Ép left only a couple of weeks later. The company surely saw the two events as being related, but it was just that once their relationship fizzled Grantaire had nothing holding him back from doing what had been inevitable for ages.

“She’s here? In Marseilles?”

“Yeah. I figured you should know, before your paths crossed.”

“Is she dancing?”

“Yeah. She’s in the company.”

“A spot opened up?” Grantaire’s eyebrows raise.

“I guess. One of the company girls quit for some reason. I’m not saying you have to talk to her, R, but…”  
“You want me to.”

“It might help. You’ve grown a lot since you two were together. She might see something in you again.”

Grantaire makes a noise of frustration. “You cannot _seriously_ be suggesting that I get back together with _Floréal_ -“

“At least she’s attainable, Grantaire.” Éponine stands, her bitter insult having done its work. Grantaire keeps drinking, but there’s a small part of him that considers it.

 

Friday night finally swings around and everything goes wrong. The girls’ parents are all there, helping their daughters put on makeup and the costumes Grantaire had to consult Éponine for. But he still has to rush around when the bows on all of their headbands start falling off. For some reason, Grantaire’s only good in crises when he’s around kids. Someone’s gotta keep them from having their heads fly off, so Grantaire stays grounded and sorts things out. By the time the headbands are all fixed, he’s getting a call that one of the girls is suddenly sick and can’t make it. There’s no partners in the performance, so it’s not a big deal, but there’s going to be a gap in the choreography. He doesn’t want to change it up for the girls who have worked so hard to get where they are.

There’s two groups performing before them, but once the show starts things move fast. Everyone has to have their shoes on and their costumes together. And even with 15 sets of parents to help him along, Grantaire feels like no one’s ready. He kneels down by Marcheline, who's got tears in her eyes.

"What's wrong?" he says, joining her on the floor and sliding on her ballet shoes.

"Don't wanna dance," she says quietly, so he almost can't hear her.

"Your brother's here, isn't he? Remember last week when you told me you were so excited to dance for him?"

"Sabine isn't here. She's supposed to dance with me."

"I know she isn't here, sweetheart. But I know you can do it without her."

"I want you to dance with me," she says softly, and so sweetly that Grantaire has to smile.

"Don't you think I'd look a bit out of place?"

"I'm in the back row anyway! Pleeaaase Mr. R!"

Grantaire slides her headband on. "Maybe. We'll see," he tells her with a grin.

Marcheline jumps up, running over to the other girls. "MR. R SAID HE'D DANCE WITH US!"

Cheers erupt, and Grantaire knows he's totally fucked.

 

So that's how Grantaire ends up joining the girls on the stage, wearing dark pink tights and a grey t-shirt so he's matching their outfits as closely as possible. Of course they forced him to wear a headband as well, and he feels ridiculous, but it's worth it to see the goofy smiles on their faces. He's absolutely sure they know what they're doing to him. Little girls can be absolute devils, when they want.

He's never danced the whole routine through. Somehow he still knows exactly where he's supposed to stand, exactly when the steps begin. The lights are bright in his eyes and a rush of memories from his first performance come back to him.

He's four years old. He's a gymnast, but without any semblance of elegance, and ballet's supposed to give you grace. He's tiny, a delicate thing even for his age, but he still lands too heavily on his feet and tries too hard to make the motions. He sees his mother in the audience, nodding along to the beat, because even now he knows there are agents in the audience from Kiev, and if he dances well enough he might get a place there-

He's shot back to reality when he notices it's not his mother in the audience, but rather his ragtag group of friends who for some reason have decided to give up their Friday night to be here. They're all caught up in silent laughs, and R's pretty sure he sees Bahorel wiping tears out of his eyes. He holds back a smile as he moves in sync with the girls from first to fifth, then into a chassé. Amélie, in the front row, turns to face him in uncertainty. He cues her into the pirouette and smiles to reassure her. A few of the other girls sneak glances at him, out of nerves or bemusement he’s not sure. He doesn’t want to lead them, not now, because he doesn’t have to. They’ve put all the work in. He’s just there to be one of them.

He’s sure the entire thing looked ridiculous, a grown man dancing a simplified routine with a bunch of 7-year-olds, but there’s applause and cheering from the audience anyway. On second thought, most of that seems to be coming from the standing college students in the back row- all of them are there, save Enjolras. That’s no surprise. He doesn’t have time to go to dance shows, let alone Grantaire’s. He lets the girls make their curtsies, and when they crowd around him he makes a short bow before the curtain falls. They’re all smiling broadly at him and giving him hugs around the waist, and he remembers why this- all of this- is worth it. He congratulates all of them and sends them back to their parents, now waiting in the wings excitedly. As he pulls the headband out, sending sweaty curls tumbling into his face, he sees les amis among the adoring mothers and fathers.

He feels like he’s just had the biggest performance of his life. Feuilly hands him a bouquet of flowers as he gets hugged by at least half of them.

“You were really good,” Jehan says, leaning in close.

“Oh, shut up. My students were really good. I didn’t do any of the work.”

“They were amazing too, thanks to you!” Joly chips in.

“I don’t think it’s even the moves you do- you’re just really graceful,” Courfeyrac tells him.

“Yeah, you’re really elegant on stage!” Bahorel says.

Grantaire ducks his head. “Thanks for coming.”

“Enjolras would’ve come too, but has an interview tomorrow,” Combeferre says off-handedly. Grantaire doubts this is true. He’s heard nothing of an interview, and certainly Combeferre’s remark is for a reason.

“I might not have told Jehan about this had I known you band of fiends would take the auditorium over,” Grantaire comments as though Combeferre had said nothing.

“You’re only calling us fiends because we complimented you and you don’t believe us,” Jehan pouts.

“You are fiends, I’m not in 10ème anymore.”

“You say that, but can we really be sure?” Bossuet says, patting him on his head. Grantaire is at least a foot shorter than most of them.

“If I was still 7 I would not be able to hold my alcohol nearly as well.”

“Let’s hope you weren’t holding your alcohol at all when you were 7. Now shut up, we want to go watch the rest of the performances.” Jehan’s suggestion is well taken, and the group all files back into the auditorium.

 

After the performance, Grantaire refuses offers to celebrate with the excuse of exhaustion. He goes home for a while, but soon enough leaves to go to a bar across town. He meets up with some acquaintances he only ever drinks with. They’re dull people, really, compared to les amis, but they’re not going to report to Ép at the end of the night how much he’s had to drink, and he doesn’t have to worry about being self-conscious around them.

The night’s barely begun- they’ve only been kicked out of one bar- when someone challenges him to see who can shotgun a Budweiser faster. He’s not sure why he agrees, or exactly who won, but somehow the whole situation leads to a fight. He’s trying to fend off the guys throwing punches at him, but either he’s got a target on his face or he’s a lot more drunk than he thought he was because everyone seems to be coming at him. It’s lucky he’s short, because he can duck under a guy’s arm and somehow escapes from the mess without anyone noticing that their scapegoat is gone. _Bar fights are proof the world runs to chaos,_ he thinks.

He’s on the curb with a cold can of, fittingly enough, Budweiser pressed to his jaw when his phone rings. It’s Enjolras. Enjolras never calls him. As in, Grantaire wasn’t even sure if he knew he had his number. Enjolras is _calling him_ and it’s 2am and Grantaire picks up.

“Grantaire? I didn’t wake you, did I?” There’s just enough static that he can’t tell if the tone of his voice is apologetic or completely indifferent.

“Of course not, dear Apollo.”

“I need to talk to you.”

Maybe Grantaire expects more, or maybe that’s just the last possible thing he thought he’d hear from Enjolras, because he has no response. There’s several long moments of silence. He can hear Enjolras breathing into the microphone, his only assurance that he’s still there and it wasn’t a prank call or some shit.

“Grantaire? I’d like to talk to you in person…Of course not now, I couldn’t expect that, but-“

“No.”

“What?”

Grantaire doesn’t respond. He’s not sure why he responded like that. He would sit on this phone with him until it tore him apart from the inside, and yet he’s refusing to have even a face to face conversation.

“I need to apologize, Grantaire.”

Grantaire still doesn’t respond. He has a feeling they both know that all Enjolras has to do is ask him.

“…Grantaire? Will you please come talk to me?”

He sighs. “I’ll be at your apartment in ten minutes.” He hangs up before there’s an awkward goodbye, before he has to fumble around with the idea that Enjolras actually _wants_ to have a conversation. He wonders who coerced him into feeling the need to apologize. He would normally assume Combeferre, but at this point it could be Feuilly or even Éponine. Their friends meddle too much for the own good. He’s an adult, he can handle this on his own. Or choose not to handle it on his own. Fuck it.

He’s there early, but Enjolras doesn’t comment. Rather, when he opens the door to Grantaire’s knock, he visibly recoils. Grantaire’s reminded of the aftermath of the fight that’s probably showing itself on his face: the dried blood from a cut on his forehead, the bruises spreading, and his puffy eye.

Grantaire grins at Enjolras’s discomfort, showing off his blood-flecked teeth. “If injuries make you so uncomfortable, Apollo, maybe you shouldn’t go into the business of revolution.”

“It’s not the injury-“ Enjolras starts, but he cuts himself off.

Grantaire feels like he’s back in his element- the annoying drunk, a burden on his friends, frustrating Enjolras with his incessant disbelief. He raises his hand to his face, his cold fingers sinking into his cheekbone. It feels like there’s bubble wrap stretched taut beneath his skin, and he presses into the indents.

“Stop that,” Enjolras snaps, reaching forward and pulling Grantaire’s arm away from his face.

Grantaire smiles cheekily at him and mashes the fingers of his other hand into the bruises. He hardly feels the pain with Enjolras’s face inches from his own, just dull pressure that at least makes him feel _something_.

“Stop it!” Enjolras says again, furious but pleading, and then his face is even closer and his lips are on Grantaire’s.

Grantaire’s hand falls, landing next to Enjolras’s, who clasps the numb fingers with his own. He’s being kissed again and he still doesn’t understand why, but the pressure of Enjolras’s cheekbone against his own is preferable to self-induced bruises. Enjolras is keeping it chaste with closed lips, one hand gently cradling Grantaire’s jaw. Grantaire pushes farther into him, knowing he’ll regret it later. He takes Enjolras’s upper lip between his own, sucking on it tenderly. Enjolras bites down on his cracked lower lip. It burns. Grantaire moans. Enjolras moves closer, pressing into him, fitting their lips together like they should never come apart.

It doesn’t last. Enjolras breaks apart from him, looking displeased. Grantaire isn’t surprised.

“You’re bleeding,” Enjolras says, turning away from Grantaire.

“Okay.” He bites down on his own lip and tastes the bitter blood. He leans back on his heels against the wall. Enjolras returns a moment later with a wet washcloth. He holds it to Grantaire’s lip soundlessly, dabbing at the cracked flesh.

“Sit,” Enjolras instructs, and flips the cool washcloth over, pressing it to Grantaire’s cheekbone.

“I dare say you’re more concerned than Joly would be.”

Enjolras sighs and looks at him, holding his cheekbone through the towel. “Do you still not understand, Grantaire? It’s taken me so long to realize what I felt for you, which was made all the more difficult by your rebukes of every affection I showed towards you-“

“Affection?” Grantaire snorted. “I seem to recall more of a ‘your drunkenness is disgracing my revolution.’ Forgive me for mistaking the two.”

“I never meant that, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, looking like he might burst from frustration. But there’s lament in his voice, a tone Grantaire’s never heard from him.

“What did you mean?” Grantaire’s practically yelling now, and Enjolras takes his hand away from his cheek, setting the washcloth on the table.

Enjolras takes several deep breaths, turned away from him. When he speaks again, his voice is calm, measured. “I want to apologize to you. I become careless around you, and that’s not fair. No one deserves that.”

 _I make him careless,_ Grantaire thinks. “The world’s not fair, and that’s not news to me. Someone’s gotta be the whipping boy.”

“You don’t really think…that you deserve that, do you?”

Grantaire shrugs. “Nothing you said was wrong. I wouldn’t rise to save the day.”

“Then why…” Enjolras trails off. The tension is gone, and yet it remains. Grantaire knows he isn’t about to be snapped at, but he still feels like he’s under fire. He can’t answer the questions Enjolras has for him.

In the silence, his phone rings. Jehan. He considers not picking up at all. Éponine could have told them that he wasn’t home, but then she would have called him first- right? _Fuck it,_ he thinks, and picks up.

“Grantaire? Okay, so don’t freak out, but Bahorel might have gotten arrested-“

“Without me?” Grantaire jibes, but the voice inside his head raises an octave or so.

“We were hotboxing in my car and a cop caught us. And everything’s fine, really, but Bahorel was brought into the station and we need to pay bail.”

“Why’d you call me?” R complains, but without any bitterness.

“I knew you wouldn’t be asleep. I’ve got money in my copy of _Les Fleurs du mal_ , it should be on top of my bookshelf. You can get into my dorm, right?”  
“Yeah, yeah, that’s not a problem,” he says. “You’re fine staying at the police station? You don’t want someone to come sit with you?”

“I’m fine, Grantaire. I just want Bahorel the fuck out of here.”

“Okay, I’ll see you in twenty minutes. Keep him sane, will you?”

“Always do. Love you, R.”  
“Love you too.”   
Enjolras is staring at him like he has an extra head. “Bahorel’s been arrested,” he huffs, standing up and going to the door.

“What happened?” Enjolras is following him.

“They were smoking. Let’s hope the fumes of weed don’t linger as long as alcohol, hm.”

Enjolras seems too focused on Bahorel to respond to that. “Does he need bail?”

“I’m getting money for Jehan.” Enjolras seems poised to follow him. “I’m going. By myself.”

Enjolras’s face sinks. “Oh. Are you sure-“

Grantaire turns his back. “Don’t ask me, Apollo.” The door slams behind him.

He left his jacket behind at the bar, and the air is cruelly crisp. He shoves his hands in his pockets. _Where’s your damn charity now, Apollo,_ he thinks.

He’s broken into Jehan’s dorm before, which is why he’s got a black hoodie on their coat rack. He slides it on when he’s on his way out with the book. When he catches a glimpse of his mangled face in the mirrored mobile hanging from Jehan’s ceiling he searches around until he finds a pair of Wayfarers in a dish in the kitchen. They’re probably Bahorel’s, and he’s lucky they’re not bedazzled yet.

Jehan will see right through him. Grantaire knows this, but as he hurries to the police station all he can think about is getting Bahorel out and going home to where he can sleep off his hangover and the bar fight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the poster R designed: http://payload190.cargocollective.com/1/0/28655/6102973/COAT%20DRIVE_1_905.jpg.   
> Enjolras’s insult about dysentery or coke is paraphrased from the movie One Day.   
> Sorry there hasn't been a chapter for the past couple weeks! I had work and then got my wisdom teeth out so things have been a bit wild. Updates will probably move to every other week as I'm moving into the school year. Thanks for sticking around!


	5. in the nick of time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this fic basically went on an almost-two month hiatus. I have a lot of excuses but all you need to know is that college kicked my ass haha. I'll be updating this fic hopefully every other week as I had promised before. Thank you if you're still sticking with it <33  
> Chapter title from I Can't Make You Love Me/Nick of Time by Bon Iver.

Grantaire thinks he’ll never get to sleep after the rush that was Enjolras’s flat, then the police station afterwards. But he’s underestimating the power that a hangover plus a potential concussion can have, and time blurs together until it’s too bright to ignore the fact that he’ll have to face the world sometime. His spine cracks as he rolls up. He checks his phone to get his bearings- it’s after noon. He’s got at least 6 missed calls from Joly, so he prioritizes calling him first.   
“R! You missed the emergency meeting this morning, so much happened- so Bahorel’s been charged with ‘maintaining a common nuisance,’ whatever that means, and Bossuet is going to represent him, so of course Bahorel’s been holding a handkerchief over his mouth whenever he goes near him, even though I told him that really doesn’t make a difference-“ Joly’s going a hundred miles a minute, and Grantaire can barely follow.

“So the big deal is Jehan didn’t get arrested, even though it was his car and his weed, and Bahorel did, and we’re positive that’s because Jehan’s white-passing and Bahorel’s not. So we have to get this out, right? Well turns out there’s some big police force parade this afternoon, so Enjolras suggested we rush it-“ Grantaire jerks back at the name. Of course Enjolras, Mr. Let’s-Take-Some-Time-Off-For-The-Good-Of-The-Cause, jumped at any excuse for a riot.

“You’re going to be there, right? Grantaire?” Joly prompts.

“Yeah, I’ll show up,” Grantaire says, resigned. He doesn’t want to see Enjolras. (That’s not true. But he wants it to be.)

“You sound sad. I can tell, you know.”

“Me? I’m dandy.

“Do you want to get breakfast? The Corinthe is open, and it’s only a train stop away from the parade so we can join it when things get going.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be there.”

“Okay, R. I’ll see you in 10?”

“Yeah.” He hangs up. He’s got to get up and get dressed. He has to work through the storm in his head.

The thoughts that had evaded him when he first woke up have resurfaced- the realization of the night before. Trying to analyze every moment with Enjolras is like looking through a hazy mirror. His emotions have always been dampened by alcohol. It’s why he needs it in the first place. He’s always felt things more deeply than other people. He has to drink to be normal, he thinks. But that makes the soberness of the morning all the more shocking. None of it feels real, or feels like him.

But the feeling of Enjolras’s lips on his is imprinted into his memory, something he’ll never forget. It hurt more than anything; there was no soft touch on his neck, or a brush of lips before the kiss. It was passion and fury, it was _Enjolras_ , and it hurt. It was masochism. Grantaire doesn’t know what impulse Enjolras acted on to kiss him in the first place, but he was the one who forced him to keep it going. And of course there was no care, no love in the interaction. The washcloth was pity. He would’ve done it for any of les amis.

Except the kiss- a kiss _means_ something. Right? A kiss like that. It wasn’t a kiss to invite him to a quick fuck in the bathroom. It wasn’t an accident. He’d imagined that before- tripping and falling and being caught against Enjolras, and their lips only press together for a moment before they stumble away embarrassedly. Was this engineered? Surely Enjolras had seen nothing to lust after. Unless he had some fucking injury kink- go figure.

And even if it meant something, it hadn’t meant what Grantaire wanted it to mean. Enjolras had kissed him first, but he’d made it go too far without invitation. He’d taken too much of something he’d never have. And Enjolras hadn’t said anything about it. For the rest of the night, Grantaire had thought perhaps he’d imagined the whole thing. Perhaps Enjolras thought the same thing, or wishes he did.

Grantaire can’t make him love him back, not through words, not through kisses. And besides, even if there _was_ something Enjolras really saw in Grantaire, Grantaire can’t be around him like that. He said it himself- Grantaire makes him careless. Everything Enjolras does is measured, perfectly calculated. Except when Grantaire crashes his meetings, or even just talks to him.

So that’s it. He’s moving on. He’s got to, for Enjolras. He can’t change, or won’t; the last three years have proven that. He gets up and leaves the thoughts on Enjolras on his sweat-dampened mattress.

It’s the black hoodie and the sunglasses again, though it’s hardly a disguise. The purple and yellow stretches down his cheeks and above his eyebrow. But maybe it will ward off the questions, because he’s not quite sure how to answer them.   


He doesn’t even have to place an order at the Corinthe anymore. Matelote gives him a bottle of wine before he even slouches into his chair. Joly and Bossuet have wide eyes.

“Were you widh Jehan and Bahorel?” Joly asks. He’s stuffed up, something Grantaire didn’t notice over the phone.

“No.”  
“Then…” Joly raises a hand towards Grantaire’s face.

“Bar fight. You should’ve seen the other guys. Too bad my best lads weren’t there to join me.” He takes a swig of the wine, not bothering with a glass.

Bossuet angles his chin at him. “Wine isn’t a proper breakfast, Grantaire.”

“My dear Laigle de Meaux, you look to be in need of our noble coat drive.” His brown overcoat has holes at the elbows and the sleeves are fraying, dipping into his meal. The seams are pulled apart at the shoulders, and the collar is turned up- Joly’s doing, he knows.

Laigle holds up his nose. “I happen to enjoy my coat. We’re friends. Coat-panions, if you will.”

Joly snorts. “Sleeve mates.”

Grantaire, woken up by a small degree due to his hearty meal, feels the need to open his mouth. “You so light-heartedly jibe on the morning of our grand revolution? Think of how our dear leader would be disappointed. We should be planning quite seriously- for the riot or our funerals, I’m not quite sure. If it’s the latter, I am to be buried in the clothes I’m wearing today. I might as well be comfortable in oblivion. I will attend yours. If they have an open bar, that is. Your funds have nothing more to go to in death than supplying me with liquor, correct? There, the funerals are sorted. Let’s talk of revolution.”

“Quiedt, you,” Joly says. He punctuates it by blowing his nose. “There is nod much to id. We crowd the streets, we disrupd their parade. We will face the gonsequences if we musd, but they will too.”

“Is your head stuffed from cold or hope? God allows revolutions to occur out of boredom. See how long we can make it before we are again resigned to obscurity. What a fate! For such young and lovely faces, as well. Perhaps you’d make the history books if you joined the ranks of the working masses, or if you became as corrupt and greedy as the leaders you detest! Me, I don’t think they’re so bad. It’s the human race I hate. I know a girl named Floréal, and worthily so. She leaves London, and for where? Here! Here, where her face will be seen by only a lucky few. They’re not so deserving of her virtue!”

“If she is here, you ought to pursue her. If you need a wingman, no fear,” Laigle says, gesturing to himself. 

“Eugh, not you too. Maybe I will, if it’ll bring so much joy to your life.”

“See how buch joy love has brought to Barius.”  
“Marius! What a love potion he has sipped. So enraptured with the love of his life, and she with him! A fairytale, truly. Love is an enviable opposition to politics, certainly. A kiss to revolution.”

He holds out his glass to Joly, who fills it from his own bottle of wine. He’s tempted to continue when a young boy interrupts them.

“Monsieur Bossuet?”

“Myself,” Laigle answers. “What is it?”

“A tall blond man on Boulevard Voltaire asked me to pass a message to you. ‘A B C,’ he said. An inside joke?”

“Joly, may I borrow a euro? One from you too, Grantaire.” Joly pulls one out of his wallet and passes it over. Grantaire has to dig through his pockets to find a crumpled up bill.

“Would you like breakfast?” Bossuet inquires of the young man.

“No, I must go back. I’d like to join the proceedings. I’ve even got a little flag.” He bounds off.

“Young excitement, over something as small as a flag! Apprentice to the revolution, a risky business to go into. Who knows what the job market will be like in 10 years when he is grown?”

Bossuet, carrying on despite Grantaire’s ramblings, began thinking out loud. “A B C, or certainly, the parade is beginning. We should go if we don’t want to miss any of it.”

“It’s raiding,” Joly says. “I haven’d brought an ubbrella. We will all catgh gold.”

“You’ve already caught one. I will stay. I prefer breakfast to a hearse.”

“Conclusion: we remain. We will drink a while longer, then join the proceedings. I do not wish to see a parade of pigs,” Bossuet says.

The table is getting crowded, but Matelote and Gibelotte avoid them. Grantaire gets loud and boisterous when he’s just so drunk, and it’s probably best for others to avoid him. His words have a twinge of melancholy, but the kind that’s obscured by his intoxication. “Enjolras despises me. He sends a messenger for Bossuet, knowing Joly is sick, and knowing Grantaire is drunk. I would have gone with him if he had asked! I won’t go to his funeral. He wasn’t here to plan it, either.”

They stay and drink for another half hour. Joly and Bossuet abandon Grantaire, but he stays for a while.  He’s feeling more cheery now. Joly and Laigle have a way of doing that. So does wine, and brandy, and stout. He is not yet tired, and the alcohol-laced optimism leads him to decide. He will call Floréal.

 

He’s a bit ashamed of how easy it is to recall her number. He deleted it out of his phone when he moved, but he’s never been great at the whole “moving on” thing. It’s almost all too easy to pretend they’re still dating, still eating take-out after rehearsals and wrapping their ankles together and getting each other off backstage. Except now something else niggles at his brain; the image of a hard, angular jawline under his rough fingertips, the sharp smell he carries with him instead of her jasmine attar. He should have realized the feelings he had for the two of them were so similar years ago.

It’s ringing and he forces himself to lean back against the wall with feigned causality. When Floréal answers with a breathy little, “Grantaire?” he thinks about hanging up. But he called for a reason, and she picked up for a reason.

“How’re you doing, Flo?”

“I assume you know I’m in town?”

“I’ve heard talk. It’s for good reason, I hope?”

Floréal’s quiet. “I’m getting married next year. He works at Barclays in London but he lives in Marseilles. It’s easier to be here.”

He feels vaguely disgusted at the concept of her with another man- but not just another man, a goddamn banker. What does he know of how to treat her? “But you’re not with the Royal. The whole thing’s falling apart without me, isn’t it?”

She gives him a little laugh. “Turns out we can actually work together when one guy’s not trying to steal all the spotlight.”

“Who, me? Never.”

“How are you, Grantaire? Still not dancing at all?”

“Not professionally. You’re in the Marseilles company, right?”  
“Yeah. You’d like it.” She’s quiet for a moment. “If you’d consider it, I think you should join. It would be nice. To dance with you again, that is.”

She must not have talked to Éponine. Ép would have told her that he would never fit in the company, would never want to. “I wouldn’t think you’d want anything to do with me.”

“Contrary to your belief, R, I don’t hate you. I understand. I’ve moved on, I’m happy now. I want you to be too.”

“Who says I’m not happy? I’ve got a life here too, you know.” His mind flashes to Enjolras. He must be protesting by now. He can’t bear to think of him, inevitably doing stupidly dangerous things in the name of revolution amidst hundreds of armed cops. He’s gonna get himself arrested or hurt or killed. Grantaire can’t save him from that.

“I know you. You’re not happy. You won’t talk about yourself.”

“You made me happy, and I still wouldn’t talk about myself.”

“But you let someone try to make you.”

He’s quiet. He’d let Enjolras try to open him up. He’d unzip himself, let it all pour out for him. He’d let Enjolras categorize his insides, _one- brain, not good for much; two- lungs, full of smoke; one- heart, bruised, broken, shriveled._

Shit, no. Shit, he needs to stop thinking of Enjolras. Floréal has a fiancé, but. Maybe if he sees her again. Maybe if he has a different someone to lust after. Maybe he can end this. “…Could I see you? Are you around today?”

“Yeah. I’m at the parade downtown- the police one. There’s supposed to be a protest. I can’t afford to be a part of it, but I thought I’d see it anyway. I’m at Boulevard Voltaire and Rue de Chapelle.”

He takes a deep breath. “I’ll meet you there.”

 

He takes the metro to the parade boulevard. The riot’s in full force, surging down the street, catching activists and police alike. The red flags of les amis are waving, matched by the waving of batons by uniformed men and women. Suddenly he catches sight of Enjolras- he’s standing on top of a moving cop car, helping hoist Jehan up. The wind’s picking up. He’s not wearing a jacket and his hair’s whipping around his face. Jesus, and he thinks Grantaire’s got no sense of self-preservation. Jehan steadies him, and Grantaire silently thanks them. Enjolras stands tall, waving a flag that’s taller than him, and the car carries through the crowd that’s rushing onto the street.

Finally it turns the corner. Grantaire turns around and nearly collides with Éponine. She sees him and ducks behind one of her more sketchy friends- Babet, Grantaire thinks- but it’s too late.

“Ép!” he shouts, and gets over to her. Her hair is pinned up beneath a hat and she’s wearing a baggy hoodie and jeans. He would’ve thought her to be a boy if he didn’t know her quite so well.

Her immediate instinct is to run from him, but the crowd’s gridlock lets him catch up to her before she slips away. “Aren’t you supposed to be performing?” he asks her. The matinee should be right about now, but maybe if she rushes back she can get there in time-

Her face hardens, and he realizes something. There’s a stripe cut through her eyebrow, and one side of her head is almost completely shaved.

“Ép? The company let you…?”

“No, R.” She rolls her eyes at his obtuseness.   
“I’m sure they won’t mind…” He’s getting increasingly frantic as he realizes what she’s done.

“R.”

“You could even get back before the performance-“

She cuts him off sharply. “I quit the company. I got another job.”  
He lets out a slow exhale of breath. “Goddamn.”

“Don’t try to patronize me. I know what I’ve done and I stand by it.”  
“You didn’t even say anything….”

She shrugs. “Don’t worry about me,” she says, and kisses his cheek before darting off.

Well Jesus, that’s a great way to get him to think she’s okay. It’s her own decision and he knows it, but he can’t help but feel a responsibility to shield her from the same mistakes he made. But she’s gone, off with her gang friends who’ve probably already murdered someone today. She’d better come home tonight or he swears to god he’ll have to recruit some of the police officers looking like they want to squash him to find her.

 

He’s at the intersection where Floréal said she was. He sees her before she sees him. She looks beautiful, radiant. Her skin glows like she’s lit from within. He thinks her Persephone, on occasion. If that makes himself Hades, so be it. But he couldn’t make her as happy. He only held her down.

Now, she smiles absentmindedly before even seeing him. Thinking of her banker, surely. What does she see in him? He must be a pox-faced 40-something, a fat and greedy man who thinks he deserves her. She’s as pretty as ever, but touched by some capitalist’s vileness. She doesn’t need him to be happy. Why can’t she see that?

“Floréal.”

“Oh, R.” Her smile twists into delight. “It’s good to see you. You look good. Better than in London.”

“I stopped doing the coke. Picked this up instead,” he says, lifting the handle of Fireball he’s been carrying since the Corinthe.

“Whatever keeps you warm, I suppose. I thought you hated whiskey?” She seems detached from him, off in her own world.

“I do, it’s abominable.”

Her smile quirks up again.

“You look nice, too.” Her face is framed by her lilac hijab. She wears it when she’s not performing. Once Grantaire had gone with her to the company to petition them to let her wear a hijab with her costumes. They had refused, of course, telling her all sorts of bullshit about uniformity in performance- it’s all meant to exclude diversity, the same concept that’s kept Éponine in the shadows of performances and helped propel Grantaire to fame. The situation was only a tiny portion of what made Grantaire realize the system would never change. He had told Floréal to threaten to quit, but she hadn’t been ready to do that. If he wasn’t so much of a self-centered dick, he would’ve threatened to quit himself if they didn’t start more inclusive policies. By that point, his career had already been on the strings for him. And yet he had done nothing to defend his girlfriend beyond sit there dumbly.  

Floréal watches him at first, takes a deep breath, and then all at once says, “I still love you, Grantaire.”

He breathes in. He breathes out. Does he still love her? Can he? Does it hurt too much, or can he handle the pain?

He kisses her. It’s with a burst of intensity at first, then it softens. Her lips invite him. A hand winds into her hijab, and he sinks back into the chair behind him. She settles on his legs, pushing him back languidly. It’s sweet as nectar but soft, too soft.

He breaks away for a breath, and her mouth follows his. They know how to do this. They’ve done it before, for hours at a time, to disgust the rest of the company, to please or horrify the paparazzi following them. If she wasn’t now a bankeress, maybe this would be real.

Her thought process must follow his. She recoils a little bit from him, still half on his lap. “This isn’t what I meant. I’m sorry- I shouldn’t have-“

“My apologies, _madam_.”

She looks at him like she’s searching for something. Then, there’s an overwhelming, oppressive silence. Everything is crumbling.

And Grantaire _knows_. Without looking up, without seeing him, he knows Enjolras needs him. It rouses him, practically knocking Floréal down with his haste.

“I’ve got to go.”

Floréal backs away from him. “Then by all means.”

Grantaire can’t just leave her like this. She deserves more than that. He smiles. He tells her what he should’ve told her a long time ago. “Every good girl’s got a hero in her.”

She gives him a sad, wan little smile. “You’ve got a hero in you, too, R.”

He’s not sure if he fully understands, but he nods anyway, and presses a kiss to her cheek.

 

On legs that feel like they’ve been at sea for weeks, he emerges from the alcove. There, across the boulevard, is Enjolras. Back against a wall, ramrod straight, looking like Christ with a halo. If he lays down his heart, that’s it. But he will finally show Enjolras why he’s there. Everything is in sharp focus and there’s a startling clarity in what Grantaire’s about to do.

Enjolras is beautiful in a way that’s incomprehensible to Grantaire. Covered in sweat, his body glistens, and his hair hangs in his eyes. And yet, there’s a certain haughtiness in his air. He looks to be invulnerable in the face of danger. There’s no fear in his eyes. He’s a martyr dampened with blood, but he alone has no injuries. His fixed look stops the officers approaching him, holds them back as though they’re under a spell. Perhaps they are.

Grantaire ambles forth in a ten-and-two walk with a body that’s used to being lethargic, and yet contains a sense of grace he can’t fully banish. When it seems the spell has broken, he cries out. “Long live the Republic! I’m one of them.”

Enjolras looks up with dejected, defeated eyes. They rise only halfway instead of the defiant glare Grantaire’s used to. He can’t bear to see him like that. His stride steadies as he pushes past the policemen with their weapons and anger in their eyes. No one moves.

Grantaire’s eyes, in the clarity that comes after drunkenness, compel Enjolras to meet his gaze. “ _Permets-tu_?” he whispers, so it can’t be heard by the officers.

Years ago, when they’d first met, he had used the formal _vous_. Enjolras told him not to, said they were all brothers.

After his disruption of the first meeting, his single-handed derailing of all serious topics, he’d assumed that no longer applied. At the second meeting, when he’d acknowledged Enjolras with _vous_ again, he had corrected him. Grantaire hadn’t used anything but _tu_ since.

And yet, for the first time, it feels intimate. _Will you permit me?_ It means nothing, he thinks. If Enjolras says no, they will be arrested together regardless. But he understands. He has to.

It’s like a cloud has passed in front of Enjolras’s eyes and is gone. They awake, and he glows. His mouth, a beautiful cupid’s bow framed by lips like rose petals, parts slightly. The corners of his mouth turn up as though Grantaire is the savior rather than himself. Enjolras’s hand reaches to him like it’s a lifeline (though for which one of them Grantaire isn’t sure). In that gesture, he knows. Their fingers press together.

Grantaire has coupled with more women than he’d care to admit, had sex based on his reputation alone and kisses due to drunkenness. He’s kissed Enjolras even, been clapped on the shoulder by him on occasion. Now their hands are their only point of connection, and it’s more intimate than anything he’s ever felt. Their fingers interlace as though they’re in love. Enjolras tightens his grip because he doesn’t do anything halfway. If he’s holding his hand, he _means_ it. Grantaire won’t let go.

The show of love means nothing to the policemen. They approach, still holding their batons as though either of them will fight back. They wrestle Grantaire away from Enjolras. He clings for as long as he can, but his arm is twisted and he thinks he lets go first. He’s turned so he can’t see Enjolras’s face. He should be worried as the cold metal clamps on his wrists, but all he feels is an overwhelming sense that everything’s going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *aka the most awkward arrest ever*  
> This chapter was heavily inspired by canon because sometimes I like to translate those scenes to modern au as best I can. Unfortunately I'm terrible at writing rants and I'm not nearly as educated as V.H. And some canon lines are too good to not be replicated on face value. I guess it's a good thing the canon similarities have to end after this...  
> Hope you enjoyed anyway, hmu on tumblr or in the comments!


	6. you opened up my eyes

They’re taken in separate police cars. Enjolras is shacked up with Marius, but Grantaire is alone. He catches a glimpse of them being driven away. Enjolras is looking out the window, and catches sight of Grantaire for only a moment before he’s gone.

The cop has the audacity to try and talk to Grantaire, as though he’s a good-natured father. “Son, getting involved in this mess is never a good idea. There’s a justice system to work these things through. And disrupting a police demonstration? You’re never going to achieve anything besides a mark on your record.”

Bullshit. This’ll be added onto their Wikipedia page, at least. That’s something, and Enjolras probably thinks it’s an achievement. Besides, Grantaire was hardly involved in this mess, and what he did was worth it. He doesn’t want to respond, but he’s just emboldened enough to. “I don’t regret it.”

The cop rambles on about the folly of youth, something that in another time and place would come out of Grantaire’s own mouth. Luckily it’s not a long ride to the police station, and it should really say something that Grantaire has the directions memorized. He’s almost glad he got a ride straight there instead of having to transfer buses twice in the rain.

The officer comes around and pops open his door. As Grantaire struggles out, he half bows and adds in a deep American Southern accent, “Much obliged, sir.”

He thinks the cop is rougher with him after that.

 

 

He has an hour alone in his cell. There’s multiple holding areas, and he’s in the one for violent offenders- as though he’s done anything violent today. Maybe it’s from his black eye, or maybe the other cell overflowed, but he’s starting to doubt if anyone will ever come to save him. They’ve got a system for holding bail money related to protests- Courfeyrac’s the official treasurer, but most of the time the funds are held in Enjolras’s flat. It’s in a safe part of town, and everyone has a key if they need to get to it. By now, one of them should be back.

He feels sobered, which makes it all the more boring. He’s stewing in his own thoughts when he hears a door open. He hops up, pressed against the painted-tan bars. An officer’s heading his way with Jehan. They’re thrown too forcefully into the cell, and Grantaire would jump to defend them, but Jehan’s got a grin a mile wide on their face. And besides, they could defend themselves.

“What did you do?” Grantaire sputters.

Jehan looks proud. “I punched Montparnasse.”

“Jesus, Montparnasse is there?”  
“Yeah, and he made some lewd comment about Éponine. And apparently she’s the only one smart enough to get out of here, so I had to be the one to tell him to knock it off.”

“Wait, she’s the only one-“

“Yeah. Every last one of us. Ép must not be home yet, because we can’t reach her. Joly called Musichetta, but she doesn’t have a key to Enjolras’s apartment, so she’s figuring out how else to get us all bail money. It shouldn’t be much longer.”

“Jesus.” Grantaire sits back down, and Jehan joins him.

“I don’t know why they separated you. Enjolras is livid.”

Grantaire’s head jerks up. “Enjolras.”

“What happened?” Jehan asks, putting a hand on top of his. “I was the first one to be taken in, so I missed everything.”

“I was only there at the very end. Enjolras- he needed someone. I was the only one there.”

Jehan leans against him. “He needed you. It wasn’t an accident, Grantaire. Nothing’s an accident.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“That’s the first time you haven’t denied something like that.”

“I guess I’m growing, or whatever.” Grantaire tries to shake it off with a laugh, but Jehan’s too smart for that.

“You’re always growing. You’re a lot different from when we first met you.”

“What do you mean by that?”  
“You were always so careful. Maybe because you thought we’d find out. But you walked so no one could hear your footsteps, and talked so no one would understand what you meant. Now, it’s easier to decipher you.”

Grantaire puts his arm around them. He doesn’t like people deciphering him. “So how long have you known?”  
“Known what?”  
“That I loved Enjolras.”  
“Two years and eleven months,” Jehan says certainly, without even a moment of hesitation.  
“That long?” He’s incredulous. He’s lived here for just over three years, and he only knew for sure a couple of days ago.

“Like I said, you were so careful. But I know what love looks like. You’re like a poem around him, always.”

“Must not be a very nice poem.”  
“You complement each other. You fit together. He tempers you, you teach him. And the other way around. You’re not always particularly nice about it, but you’ll learn.”

“We’ll learn,” Grantaire repeats softly.

 

 

Jehan falls asleep on his side before a guard comes by to let them out. Musichetta paid bail for all of them except Bahorel. Since it’s his second offense in two days, they’re holding him until his court date on Monday- the rest of the weekend. They all come by his cell to see if he’s okay, but he’s just chuffed at the fact that he’s fully locked-up now, with his own cot and toilet and everything. He gives them all a half-hug through the bars until a guard tells them all to move it.

Outside, they split into groups to get home. The rain’s stopped, and it’s still light enough that most of them are taking the metro. Combeferre and Enjolras linger behind, and Grantaire stays with them. Once everyone is gone, Combeferre says something to Enjolras, then disappears.  
“He’s taking his car,” Enjolras explains to Grantaire. “Do you want to get dinner?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.”

They decide on a café a block away. They begin walking, and neither picks up a thread of conversation. Grantaire hates silence, but he’s not sure what Enjolras wants him to say. This time couldn’t have been a mistake, but maybe he misinterpreted it. It might have been an acceptance of friendship, not a declaration of love. But he still can’t forget Enjolras’s words from the night before- his affections. Or the way Enjolras’s eyes lit up when he first saw him out of the jail cell, the way he shouldered past their other friends to stand by him. And this silence isn’t uncomfortable as their others have been. They walk together in sync, like they understand each other.

When they get there the sun has fallen behind a building, so they sit inside. A waiter immediately gives them menus and lights the candle on their table. They aren’t left alone until they’ve ordered. Their meus get taken away. Grantaire picks at a hangnail, looking down. Enjolras’s knee bumps against his and he looks up.  
“Why did you do it?” Enjolras asks softly. When Grantaire says nothing, he adds, “I _know_ why you did it, but…I want to hear you say it.”

Grantaire has to think to phrase it right. He can’t ruin this with his ramblings. Enjolras rests his hands on Grantaire’s to get him to stop tapping on the table. He finally decides on the words. “It meant something. I meant something.”

He feels almost detached from the whole thing, with Enjolras’s hands on his and his eyes digging into him like he’s a fossil to be uncovered. Is this what Flo meant when she said he had a hero in him? That wasn’t heroism, that was fucking selfishness. He didn’t want to be left behind while the rest of his friends got carted off to jail.

And yet. He had made Enjolras’s eyes soften, he had held his hand and stood with him when he needed it. It _meant_ something. He _meant_ something.

“You meant everything. To me, then. I had no one and I didn’t want to be there by myself. I’m so used to being around other people, I didn’t realize what it’s like to need someone that deeply. I needed you.”

Grantaire takes a deep breath. “There’s other people now. You don’t need me anymore.” It’s him testing Enjolras. He still needs Enjolras, but is the feeling mutual?  
“Yes I do, R.” Enjolras’s conviction strengthens. “When I was in the holding cell, the rest of them were there. But the only one I wanted to talk to was you.” He softens a bit, and his hands slide back so his fingers can interlace with Grantaire’s again, just like they did before. Grantaire thinks he might feel nostalgic every time this happens- if it keeps happening.

“Do you think we can learn?” he asks quietly.  
“Learn what?”

“How to be nice to each other.”

Enjolras looks down. “You don’t deserve how I’ve acted to you. You still have such a capacity for love, Grantaire. I’ve had to strive after it to understand how I feel.”

Grantaire feels like the breath’s been knocked out of him. “You’ve had to strive after me?”

“Somehow, after all the shit you’ve been through, you’re still so intense about me.”

“Only you could make me feel that way.”

“But you were with that girl. In the alley. I saw you kissing her.”  
“That wasn’t what you thought it was.” Shit, Grantaire thinks. If he’d known Enjolras was watching, he never would have kissed her- maybe more proof that he could never settle for Flo and leave Enjolras behind.

“It’s not so casual with me.” It’s a question, but not really. Enjolras knows now that Grantaire was always serious about him.  
“It wasn’t casual with her once, either. But I don’t love her anymore.”

Enjolras nods. Take him to be so analytical about this.

Enjolras hardly notices when their plates are laid in front of them. Grantaire scarfs down his moules normande. Normally he sits in cafés for hours, but today he’s anxious to leave with him.

Enjolras watches him. Grantaire looks up. “Is there something wrong?”  
“What does this mean? Us.”

Grantaire stops eating, sits back. “I think that’s for you to decide.” It’s not his decision. If it was, he’d throw them into a relationship too fast. Enjolras has feelings for him, but a relationship isn’t warranted every time someone’s got a crush.

“I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never really-“

Grantaire’s struck by how unsure he seems of this now. Is this something Grantaire’s better than him at? “It’s what you want it to be. There doesn’t need to be a label. Tell me what you’d like.”

Enjolras seems less scared of that prospect. “I’d like to talk to you more. As a friend. Well, more than a friend, but we can’t skip that stage, can we? I hardly know you, not like I’d like to. I want to spend time with you. And I want. I want to kiss you.”

Enjolras hardly breaks a blush, but Grantaire thinks he might be melting in his chair. “That…can be arranged.”

“You’d like that too?”  
“Yeah, Enjolras, shit. Whatever you want to do, is great. Fantastic.”

Enjolras scowls. “I don’t want this to be about me. You should be happy in this relationship too, without me taking advantage of you-“

“No, not like that, Jesus. Enjolras, I’m head over heels for you, honestly. We need to start with whatever you’re comfortable with.”  
Enjolras blinks at him. “I meant what I said last night. I’ve tried to show you affection sometimes. But when you continued to disrupt the meetings and taunt me, I thought you didn’t want any of it.”

“I never thought it was affection. I thought you hated me. I thought it was the only way I’d ever get you to notice me was if I was a complete dick. It worked, right?”

Enjolras looks down. “Combeferre told me that what you wanted was to wind me up. And I _know_ that, but what I didn’t understand was why. And so I let you keep going. And I kept fighting it.”

Grantaire exhales shakily. “I’m not exactly _proud_ that being a dick was the only way I felt comfortable around you. There’s still the urge, right now, you know, I still want to laugh this whole thing off.”

“But you’re not.”

“It’s sincere now. And you know, and for some god-awful reason you agree with me. And I can live with god-awful reasons.”

Enjolras relaxes his grip on Grantaire’s fingers, so he takes that as his cue to go back to eating. Enjolras goes back to his food too.

“They’re not ‘god-awful’,” he says finally, and a little huffily. “I have a lot of good reasons.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

“I just told you- you manage to be so completely passionate about me. You would give up anything to stand by my side

“You’ve never thought that before. I don’t believe in anything else. No matter how hard I try, I can’t.”

“Faith in a person is worthy faith. I didn’t know that until you stood by me.”

Grantaire nods. He thinks he might disagree, but there’s no use in arguing. It was good enough to get him here, with Enjolras.

“And about last night. You said you wouldn’t rise to save the day. You realize, you did rise. To save me.”

Grantaire laughs sardonically. “I’m awfully wrong, sometimes.”

“I’m glad you were wrong on that. I think I can convince you you’re wrong on a couple of other things, too.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to say about that. He thinks of what Jehan said about the two of them teaching each other. Grantaire knows he’s probably wrong about a lot of things, but he doesn’t want to have to confront them. Maybe with Enjolras’s help he can.

 

 

Enjolras pays the bill, so Grantaire tosses him 15 euros. He’s not entirely sure that they weren’t left at the table to brighten some lucky waiter’s day. Enjolras always likes putting money back into the capitalist system in the name of socialism.

They’re giddily laughing as they emerge from the dark café into the lamplight-lit street. Enjolras knocks his hand against Grantaire’s until he holds onto it. They pause by the corner when they see the next train isn’t going to be there for another ten minutes.

“Say it again,” Enjolras breathes. They’re facing each other, only inches separating them.  
“What?”  
“Why you did it.”  
“I meant something.”

Enjolras’s eyes flicker shut as though in pleasure. Grantaire watches his eyelids, the pink and purple veins that make him look so delicate. Is this his Achilles heel?

Enjolras surges forth, and Grantaire doesn’t even see his eyes open before he feels their lips connect. He stumbles back slightly, but Enjolras’s hand rests on his lower back to steady him. When did his lips gather so much static electricity? This is nothing like the last time they kissed- it still hurts, but not like before. It’s passion.

Enjolras isn’t experienced, but he’s good. Grantaire thinks it’s because he’s just a little tentative, only enough to keep him from slobbering in his mouth. But he’s still eager, pushing into Grantaire.

When they break for a breath Grantaire can’t help but compare it to how it felt with Floréal. They don’t fall easily back into it, but he hadn’t expected them to- not yet. They’ve got time, he thinks. They could’ve had more if they hadn’t been such dumbasses.

He can’t help but huff out a little laugh at that thought. Enjolras, still smiling from the kiss, looks endeared. “What? Am I that bad?”

“No, you’re great. It’s just…We’ve been dense as fuck.”

Enjolras looks at the ground, his smile growing. “I have a feeling our friends are going to have something to say about that.”

“Let’s not talk about them,” Grantaire says breathily, diving back into the kiss.

 

 

They sit together on the train, pressed up against each other. They hold hands in the middle and bow their heads towards each other. Enjolras talks as though they’re in their own world. It’s just murmurings, sweet little comments about the way Grantaire’s eyes reflect the fluorescent lights or how his grip on his hand is so sure, as though it’s the thing Grantaire can commit to most. It’s calming in a way Grantaire can’t imagine. He could make his words about Enjolras sound the way he wants them to. He’s helpless when he looks at him, and lost without him.

When they get off at their stop, Enjolras walks with Grantaire towards his apartment with no qualms. His apartment is in the complete opposite direction, and Grantaire wants to protest, but then Enjolras launches into a tirade about the protest and what they’re going to do next. It’s a miracle, honestly, that Enjolras has spent so long focused on Grantaire and not the Cause. Grantaire imagines it’s all been building up in him like a bottle until the cork finally popped off. He doesn’t mind, though, really. It’s nice to hear Enjolras so unfazed by their failure.  
“We’re all going to Bahorel’s hearing. I strongly doubt they’ll let us in, but if they try to convict Bahorel of _anything_ , they will have to deal with administrative complaints for days.”

“I’m shocked you’re not already finding the names of every judge in the county,” Grantaire tells him.

Enjolras smiles shyly, as though amused by how easy he is to read. “Combeferre told me to take the night off. And he’s got a point. We did a lot today, even if it didn’t end as well as we would have liked.”

“It’ll be publicized, though.” Enjolras looks at Grantaire, eyebrows raised as though waiting for his point. Grantaire looks down and grumbles, “Just saying.”

“This coming from the man who, less than a week ago, told me we would be known as the group who doesn’t know how to plan protests.”

“I didn’t really believe that.”

“Did you think it would be good for us?” Enjolras gives him a confused glance.

“I didn’t really think it would matter. Nobody notices Wikipedia pages. Except apparently mine.”

“I’m still sorry, you know. That we found out that way.”

“My own fault for not telling you.”

“It’s really not. We have no right to your personal life unless you want us to know.”

“I guess I don’t mind so much, if it’s given me this,” Grantaire says, squeezing Enjolras’s hand. They’re at the stairs of his apartment building, and he expects Enjolras to make his goodbyes. But he just walks with him up the stairs like they live together. Isn’t that a thought.

“I watched some of your videos. Maybe that was a violation of your privacy too, but…I wanted to know more.”

Grantaire nods. He hasn’t watched videos of himself since he was forced to in practice. When he did, he used to hate how his body moved. Even when it was perfect, it wasn’t good enough. He still wanted to tear himself apart. “What did you think?”

They reach the landing, so Grantaire turns to face him and sees the full extent of Enjolras’s intensity focused on him. “You’re gorgeous,” he says, and kisses Grantaire up against the post. He’ll never get used to this. Enjolras’s pupils widen right before he comes in for the kiss, as though he’s got to see all of Grantaire. His hands know exactly where to land and hold Grantaire steady like an anchor. His face radiates warmth like the fucking sun, and his skin is unbearably smooth against the roughness of Grantaire’s cheek. He kisses him like they’re running out of time, and maybe they are. Grantaire has wasted 27 years of his life getting here. This is the only thing that matters now- Enjolras’s lips bumping against his before they fit together.

When Grantaire runs out of breath and falls back against the post, Enjolras takes a step back. “I guess you should go. We’ve had a long day.”

“You’ll have to walk home by yourself,” Grantaire says, with little pants between his words.

“I don’t mind.”

“You would’ve minded if I had walked home by myself.”

Enjolras says nothing.

“You could stay. If you want.”

“I’m pretty sure sleeping in your bed doesn’t count as us being friends first, before boyfriends,” Enjolras points out, and if Grantaire wasn’t already backed up against a wall he thinks he’d stumble back. He blanches at the suggestion- Enjolras _in his bed_ , Enjolras _being his boyfriend_. It’s beyond his comprehension, that this could be real. “You could sleep on the couch if you’d like,” he chokes out.

“I don’t mind,” says Enjolras, stepping close again and resting a hand on Grantaire’s waist. “If you don’t, that is. It’s not like- anything has to happen.”

“Yeah, of course not,” Grantaire says hastily. “Okay. Come on in, you.” He unlocks the door with shaky hands.

Grantaire leads Enjolras to his room giddily, but his enthusiasm is tempered when he opens the door to his room and remembers the state he lives in.

Between piles of clothes, books and papers stacked upon each other, and discarded food containers, there’s barely any inches of floor space left over. His dance bag lies in the corner, its contents spread over the floor from when he was trying to find his cell phone after the performance. There’s open jars of dried paint and more jars of paint water, left over from the last time he tried to paint months ago. A couple of them are tipped over, but he still never bothered to clean them up.

He doesn’t even have a bed, for Christ’s sake. It’s just a mattress slid into the corner beneath the windowsill where he keeps empty bottles of alcohol and his ashtray. He looks down, a hand coming up to scratch at his neck. “It’s, uh, it’s a good mattress. Comfortable, I mean. I just didn’t have money left over to buy a bedframe.”

“And you haven’t bought one since?” Normally Grantaire would assume that Enjolras’s tone would be scathing, but now if he listens closely he hears the hint of amusement.

“Uh?” Grantaire’s at a loss. “I guess not? You can- I mean, we could go over to your flat if that’s-“

“It’s fine, Grantaire,” Enjolras says, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “I should go get changed. Where’s your-“

“Bathroom’s right down the hall,” Grantaire says, pointing. As soon as Enjolras is out of sight he gets to work. First he throws the threadbare comforter off his bed. He retrieves a set of sheets from the hall closet and puts a fitted sheet over the mattress. When he sits back, nearly knocking his head on the windowsill, he realizes he has far too many open bottles of alcohol. He grabs a few and kicks away Chinese takeaway containers and a few pairs of jeans on his way to his closet, where he stashes the bottles. When he hears Enjolras opening the bathroom door, he quickly swaps his jeans for soft grey pajama pants and takes off his hoodie.

Enjolras is wearing loose boxer shorts, and it takes Grantaire several moments to convince himself that _it’s fine, everything is fine._ “Uh, do you want to borrow pajamas or anything?”

With the confidence of someone who has no idea how completely, unfairly attractive they are, Enjolras tells him, “Your house is burning hot.”

 _So are you_ , Grantaire thinks. He’s seen Enjolras shirtless only a couple times- once les amis took a weekend trip out to the beach, and once at a les amis meeting Courfeyrac had accidentally spilled hot coffee on Enjolras. But this is more than just a glimpse of Enjolras’s smooth chest- he has all the time in the world to admire it. Grantaire thinks now he can ask him if he even has to shave, or if his hairless chest is proof that he naturally can’t grow facial hair.  
Enjolras isn’t muscular by any means- he’s just thin and tall, but his skin is pulled so nicely taut over his muscles that Grantaire can see his abs and the dip from his hips to his boxers. He wants to hold onto Enjolras’s hips right then and there, but instead Enjolras just walks over to his bed. He deposits his clothes- neatly folded- and shoes on Grantaire’s mostly empty nightstand.

“I-uh, I borrowed a toothbrush from the cabinet,” Enjolras says, almost embarrassedly. “I hope you don’t mind.”

 _Shit_ , Grantaire thinks, _that’s probably a hint that I should go brush my teeth too_. “No, no, you’re fine, I’ll, uh, I’ll be right back.”

He goes the full nine yards- floss, toothpaste, even fucking spearmint mouthwash. He’s sure the moules normande probably tasted disgusting to Enjolras and he seriously regrets eating seafood before kissing him for the first time. But he _kissed him_ for the first time- the first time for real, at least. Enjolras’s flat the night before doesn’t count. He doesn’t want it to count. If he’d ever actually believed that they would be together, he would’ve guessed it would always be like that. Hard edged, arguments, bitterness and angry kisses. But this feels so soft he doesn’t know how to handle it. Enjolras is so gentle with him, so attentive to him, he wonders how they missed a connection before.

When he gets back to his room, Enjolras is in his bed. His lips quirk up and his smile grows as Grantaire flips off his light and joins him. Enjolras moves over to make space. He’d grabbed the dark green comforter off the floor and draped it over him while Grantaire was gone. He feels like he needs to apologize, but Enjolras looks so comfortable that he doesn’t. With both of their bodies nestled under it, Grantaire understands why it was necessary for Enjolras to strip down. He’s a fucking furnace, his body heat almost scalding Grantaire.

“Jesus, how warm-blooded are you?” he mutters.

“I’m not the one with freezing hands,” Enjolras says, but R’s pretty sure that’s just an excuse to hold his hand again. Not that he’s complaining. He turns his head to kiss Enjolras against the pillows. In a way, he’s glad he’s never had another guy in his bed. This feels special, unlike any relationship he’s ever had. He’s bedded girls here before, but he hasn’t had a serious relationship since he left Floréal.

“Tell me about your tattoos,” Enjolras says, holding Grantaire’s wrist up gently. The moonlight framed by his window falls on his skin, and the black ink on his mixed skin looks like an abyss.

“Those ones-“ Grantaire starts when Enjolras runs his thumb over the twin semicolons on the side of his wrist. It feels intimate. “I got them with Eponine. She’s got one. They’re times my story could’ve ended but didn’t.”

Enjolras seems pensive at that, but he doesn’t push. His fingers continue though, sliding down Grantaire’s forearm, leaving his skin feeling alight in their path. “What about this one?”

It’s cursive words, in French, which is why Enjolras can read them aloud- “’Le monde est trop grand pour moi de comprendre.’” _The world is too big for me to comprehend._

“Jehan’s poetry. Inspired by me, apparently. I got it mostly to make him happy.”

“You don’t like it?”

“Oh, no. It- it’s a good reminder, sometimes. That it’s okay to feel that way. Overwhelmed.” He stops. “I like inking things on my skin, but sometimes putting the truth is too heavy.”

Enjolras moves his hand to his sleeve and paws at it. “You’ve got one on your shoulder, don’t you?”

Grantaire sighs. He knows where this is leading. Fuck past Grantaire for getting so many tattoos on his abdomen, before he quit dancing and developed a pouch on his stomach. But Enjolras doesn’t let up, so he sits up and peels the t-shirt off his back. Now they’re skin to skin for far more of their bodies than Grantaire ever thought was possible. He lies back down and Enjolras’s fingers trace the honestly kind of grotesque skull covering his shoulder.

“I had a phase where I was sort of into Russian prison tattoos. When I was in the Mariinsky. Prisoners have all these symbols they tat on themselves. To represent their sentences or their crimes.”

“You weren’t ever-“

Grantaire lets out a little barky laugh. “God, no, Enjolras, I’m not a convict. It’s the symbolism of it, or whatever.”

“What does a skull mean?”

“Sentenced for life. Not to prison, maybe, but life is sort of like a prison, don’t you think?”

Enjolras keeps his eyes focused on the tattoo, mulling it over. “No. Even when we are not free, we can fight for freedom.”

Grantaire really wants to avoid this argument. His cynicism feels ridiculous under such close scrutiny. And besides, a lot of time has passed since he got that tattoo. He tells Enjolras as much, and he seems satisfied. He lays his hand on Grantaire’s breast where a geometric heart lies directly over his own. “This one?”

“I liked the design.”

“That’s it?”

“Does there need to be more of a reason?”

“It’s going to be on your body for the rest of your life.”

“I like getting tattoos. It feels good and I wanted to see how it felt on my chest. And besides, at that point-“ Sometimes he forgets how much he can tell Enjolras. He’s opening up, but he has to keep his guard up. If he tells Enjolras all of this, the truth about how his life really was before he moved to France, he’d change his mind so quickly that Grantaire thinks he might end up sleeping alone tonight anyway.

“What?” Enjolras asks softly after a few moments of silence.  
Grantaire shrugs. “Nothing.”

“It obviously was something.”

“That was the first tattoo I got when I got to the Royal. I invested in a tattoo parlor when I was there. One of my friends. I never got my money back, but he’s a talented guy, isn’t he?”

“You can’t change the subject that easily,” Enjolras murmurs, turning on his side towards Enjolras and laying his head of curls on Grantaire’s chest.

“It doesn’t matter. This one-“ he says, pointing to the next tattoo on his torso.

Enjolras grabs his hand with alarming speed. He lies their linked hands on Grantaire’s breastbone, right below the tattoo. “I want to understand you, Grantaire.”

Grantaire lied earlier, when he said he would dissect himself for Enjolras. He’s absolutely fucking terrified of this. He takes a quick little breath. “My life didn’t really mean that much to me at that point. And I didn’t really think I would last that long for that to be a concern.”

Enjolras’s deep breaths continue, and R can feel his chest moving against his. “I can’t imagine feeling that way.”

Grantaire shrugs again. He really didn’t want to say that, but now that it’s out he feels a little bit better. This is all about understanding each other, right? “Don’t try. It was kind of sucky. But…things are better now.”

Enjolras smiles against his chest. “I’m glad.” He thinks his grip on his hand tightens, but he’s not sure. Enjolras breaks their hold a moment later anyway, to trace his finger down Grantaire’s chest to the next place with ink below his skin.

It’s words, English, on the side of his lower stomach, right where his belly curves up and the hair tracing into his boxers begins. Grantaire knows Enjolras’s English skills aren’t fantastic, but he always assumed Enjolras refused to speak it because he was too proud to admit he wasn’t fluent. But now he realizes that Enjolras’s English might just be really atrocious, because he has to ask Grantaire to translate.

“I am not a human, I am not a god, I am what I am,” he says dutifully, realizing moments later that he had the option to make up whatever he wanted. He got this one in England, too, but it took on another meaning when he moved here.

“What does it mean to you?”

“Not every tattoo has to have a meaning, Enjolras,” Grantaire snaps. He feels a little cross now, for no good reason. He turns on his side away from Enjolras.

Enjolras loops an arm around Grantaire’s midsection. “You don’t need to tell me. I won’t be upset,” he says to Grantaire’s neck.

Grantaire’s breaths come a little faster. “I can’t. Not yet.”

“That’s okay. Thank you for telling me about the other ones.”

“They’re not really that important. I just, like getting tattoos.”

“I’ve always wondered what they meant,” Enjolras says, and that might be the most shocking thing. _Enjolras has wondered about his tattoos._ “I only knew you had a few.”  
“Do you like them?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras kisses his neck. “They’re beautiful. Just like you.”

Neither of them speak again, and after a few minutes Grantaire realizes Enjolras’s arm has gone slack against him and his breathing has steadied out. He readjusts so Enjolras’s head is nestled between his shoulder and head, and it’s easier to fall asleep than he thought it would be.

 

 

“Grantaire, how many times have I told you to not steal my fucking tights, they’re not going to fit you anyway-“

Grantaire starts, his body sluggish from sleep and his eyes still scrunched up. Trust Éponine to storm in at some ungodly morning of the hour for some fucking _tights_. Suddenly the body next to him moves and he realizes, he’s not alone in bed. _Fuck_. Enjolras sits straight up. “The fuck?”

Grantaire’s awake _now,_ and he sees Éponine’s eyes go wide before she turns on her heel and practically falls through the doorway with laughter. He wants to grab Enjolras and shove him back down under the covers, as though he can reverse the whole thing. Enjolras is still sleepy, barely able to keep his eyes open, but he’s taking in his surroundings and Grantaire is worried for a moment that Enjolras thinks he has made a terrible, terrible mistake.

Instead, he just smiles, and Grantaire will never get rid of the fluttery feeling he gets when he knows he caused that. Enjolras so rarely smiled at him before, he thinks there’s been more in the past 24 hours than in the past 3 years.

“I guess the secret’s out,” Enjolras says, blinking slowly.

“I can tell Ép- I mean, I’ll tell her not to tell anyone,” Grantaire says quickly. “She won’t. Not until we’re ready.”

Enjolras nods. His head falls back down on the pillow, and Grantaire decides confronting Éponine can wait for a few more minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at me updating on time. Sorry I don’t know anything about French police/justice system lol but I tried my best. If anyone wants to play the game of “how many of these lines were inspired by Hamilton lyrics” go right ahead. There’s a lot.  
> If anyone was wondering what all of Grantaire’s tattoos are, here’s a (probably not exhaustive) list with some images. Some of them are inspired by Sergei Polunin’s tattoos, and some aren’t.  
> -two semicolons on the side of his wrist  
> -"the world is too big for me to comprehend" in cursive on his forearm  
> -"you are enough" on his other wrist  
> -a skull on his shoulder (Russian prison tattoo meaning sentenced for life)  
> -[ a geometric heart on his chest ](http://41.media.tumblr.com/6a172934389e1adec4e2c547acd74be3/tumblr_n6lognjiu81tcb70no1_500.jpg)  
> -[ bands on his upper arm ](http://ak-hdl.buzzfed.com/static/enhanced/webdr05/2013/4/30/14/enhanced-buzz-25192-1367346300-1.jpg)  
> -"i am not a human, i am not a god, i am what i am" on his stomach  
> -on his foot "achilles" in ancient Greek and a gladiator helmet  
> -[ wolf on his hip ](http://www.cuded.com/wp-content/uploads/2013/12/31-Watercolor-painting-wolf-quarter-sleeve-tattoo.jpg)
> 
> That last scene is kind of not so kind of inspired by [that one vine.](http://merry-taire.tumblr.com/post/123869163963/infiniteescape-dreams-imagine-your-otp)
> 
> Also I'm having a [giveaway](http://ridiculousinconvenientlove.tumblr.com/post/129827195101/hey-guys-so-ive-acquired-a-lot-of) on my tumblr inspired by Grantaire! It closes in a couple of weeks so for all my loyal readers feel free to enter :)

**Author's Note:**

> Talk at me [on tumblr](ridiculousinconvienientlove.tumblr.com)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Fanart for 'the arduous motions of grace'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4495788) by [saltkettle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltkettle/pseuds/saltkettle)




End file.
